


The Faraway Prince

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (not John/Sherlock's relationship), Accidental Cuddling, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Background Mystrade, Blood, Camping, Familiars, Female Moran, Friends to Lovers, It's kind of an ass but it's fine, Kind of Sleeping Beauty, M/M, Magic, Magic Is Sentient, Minor Character Death, Mycroft's a dragon, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence, emotionally abusive relationship, kind of not, that do not come to fruition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-10-02 03:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10208708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, prince of London, is eighteen years old when he is put under the spell of a scheming witch. After over fifty years of Magic-induced slumber, it is up to Sir John Watson, inevitably, to save him. But that's not to say that Sir Watson doesn't need any saving himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks, as always, to my lovely beta EmmaLockWrites. All mistakes you find are mine and not theirs.

Once upon a time, in a land called London, there lived a prince who was revered for his beauty throughout the kingdom. The prince had shiny dark curls and pale skin. His eyes were colder than the most frigid of metals, and his features as sharp as his quick-witted tongue. Men and women across the land lusted after him to no avail; however, the King and Queen would not let their prince be snatched up by just anyone.

When the prince was seventeen years old, the King and Queen began to hold balls and feasts in an attempt to single out the most noble, most compassionate suitor for their son, for they wished for no more than his happiness. To their dismay, the prince never showed interest in anyone they found suitable.

Now, the King was a fair and just king who did not discriminate. This meant that everyone in the kingdom was welcome at their celebrations; men and women from all corners of the kingdom entered the castle hoping to win the heart of the young prince. Many left with their own hearts broken and their hopes dashed.

The prince, who was much more interested in science and the way things came to be, didn’t care one way or the other if he ever got married. He could live his whole life without marrying or falling in love, and he was perfectly happy studying the stars or the soil or the wildlife of London for the rest of his days. This worried the Queen, but the King assured her that they never had to worry whether or not their son would follow his heart, even if it was knowledge he pursued over love.

It was true the King and Queen had born another son before the raven-haired prince, one who had turned down every marriage proposal he’d ever received. They had also born a third son, one who was much too young to care about much other than adventures and sweets. The King and Queen never stopped hoping that their sons would find love, but they also knew that they would support their sons no matter their fate.

That’s why, after days of arguing, the King and Queen agreed that they would hold only one more ball; if their eldest princes did not find love at this ball, they would accept their sons’ lives of study and inquiry. The Queen had argued that marriage did not mean an end to those things, but she was only met with scoffs from both of her sons, each over the pages of a textbook. She had to smile at their similarities; at the very least, they would always have each other.

It was with heavy hearts that the King and Queen announced the date of their last ball for some time; it was to be held in honor of the young prince’s eighteenth birthday, and even the neighboring kingdoms were welcome to attend.

The eldest prince, as shrewd and aloof as ever, did not find love at this ball, and he was perfectly content with this turn of events, glad that he would no longer be forced to participate in such tedious and bothersome events. He had, after all, given up hope after the first ball the King and Queen had thrown him nearly five years ago.

The younger prince, however, found someone interesting, someone unlike anyone he’d encountered before. Despite the prince’s obvious beauty, everyone he’d met tended to dislike him. To them, he was cold and unfeeling and mean, and they couldn’t wait to get away from him. The prince had never meant to be any of those things, and, with this man, he felt wanted. The prince was eager to hear him talk and beseeched him to tell more of his stories abroad.

The man had been in the army and fought bravely in the name of his kingdom. He had seen the horrors of the battlefield and lived to tell the tale. If the prince had seen the gleam in the man’s eye as he recounted bloody wars and body counts, he took no notice of it. Instead, he listened to the sound of the man’s soothing voice as he told tales of murders and kidnappings and pillaging, all with a demented smile plastered on his features.

Slowly, the prince grew more and more anxious as it became clear that this man was dangerous. This man, with slicked-back hair and unfeeling eyes and a voice as soft as sheep’s wool, was not what the prince wanted.

And that was what the prince told him.

The man grew angry at the prince’s words. He grew so furious that, as he hurled insults at the prince and his family, everyone in the great hall stopped to listen. When the stranger was sure he had captured everyone’s attention, he smiled wickedly and raised his arms to the sky.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he cried, his voice commanding the attention of all who could hear, “I thought you were interesting! Turns out I was wrong. You nearly put me to  _ slee p _ _,_ darling.”

The King’s knights and guards rushed to the prince’s aid, but they weren’t quick enough.

“Give us a minute!” the man screamed. Magic surged from his fingertips, and every person in the hall froze. The man sneered and stepped towards the prince menacingly. “That was rude. We were having such a lovely conversation before they had to muck it up. Anyways! Like I said, darling, you put me right to sleep. I think it’s time to return the favor, no?”

The King and Queen and all their subjects watched on in horror as the young prince fell to the ground in a motionless heap. Time sped up around the wicked man, and he grinned widely as the kingdom’s people began to weep. The King and Queen rushed to their son’s aid, holding him tight and crying into his dark, dark hair. The youngest prince sprinted over as well, clinging to his older brother’s limp body.

The eldest prince, who loved no man as much as he loved his younger brothers, drew a sword from the sheath of a nearby guard and charged the man, shouting, “Witch! Fiend! Villain!”

“Are you just getting that now?” the witch replied, giggling like a child.

“If you have killed him…” the elder prince snarled.

“No no no no no,” the witch sang. “He’s not dead, you know. I’m not going to kill him. Not yet.”

“Wake him at once!”

“Now, now,” said the witch, “where’s the fun in that? But, since you’re  _ soooooo _ eager to protect him, I suppose you can spend your time doing that instead.”

With a snap of his fingers, the eldest prince disappeared. In his place stood a mighty black dragon with teeth and claws as sharp as swords. The beast stood as tall as ten men, and his wings spanned the entire hall. He roared thunderously and swiped at the witch, but the witch hopped out of the way and grinned as iron chains appeared to hold the dragon back.

“Ah ah ah,” the witch chided. “You don’t want anything to happen to your poor little brother, do you? And as for Mummy and Daddy and  _ sweet little Sherrinford _ …”

The dragon growled as the witch’s Magic snaked its way to the rest of the family. The Magic, white and red and black, reared its ugly head and sunk its teeth into their shoulders, causing them to drop the young prince’s body to the ground. The King, Queen, and youngest prince immediately turned to stone, expressions of pain and sorrow forever etched on their features. 

The witch stepped over the prince’s sleeping form and strolled to the center of the room.

“I guess that leaves me in charge!” he shouted gleefully. The witch flicked his wrist, and the eyes of every knight in the castle turned pure white. “Right, boys?”

“Yes, my lord,” the knights replied in unison.

Silently, the witch ran his fingers over the statues, grinning evilly as he tipped the youngest prince over. As the stone prince hit the marble floor, he cracked into countless little pieces, each shard indistinguishable from the last.

“Oh, dear,” the witch laughed. “How  _ clumsy _ of me!”

The beast let out an agonizing roar and reared up, breaking the chains surrounding him.

The witch positively beamed.  _ “Kill the dragon!” _ he cried.

As knights poured into the hall, bows at the ready, the dragon scooped up the young prince in his great paws and burst through the windows at the head of the hall. Glittering glass rained down around the dragon, but he clutched the prince close to his chest, hoping beyond hope that the prince would be kept safe - and the prince  _ was _ to be kept safe, somewhere no one could hurt him ever again. He could not let the witch take both of his brothers from him.

“Sweet dreams, Sherlock!” the witch screamed into the wind as the dragon flew clumsily into the night. “I’ll wake you when things get interesting!”

~*~*~

Half a century later, far, far away, in the land of Afghanistan, a young knight from Northumberland was busy fighting for his kingdom. The Fusiliers were widely known as the bravest, kindest, and poorest of all the regiments. Although the knights in the Fusiliers did not come from the richest of homes, they were the richest in spirit, for they laughed often and protected each other with their lives.

Now, our young knight was not of the cleanest heart, nor of the richest cloth; he was not the bravest, nor the kindest, nor the smartest of the knights in his regiment, but he was just and generous and quick-thinking, and he wished only to serve, to protect, to heal, to love. He strived to be kind, struggled to be understanding, and pushed himself to be the bravest he could be.

This knight was also a doctor, one who cared for every man fallen in the battlefield. This fact made the entire regiment respect and admire him above all others, even though it made the knight uncomfortable to be so idolized amongst his peers. The knight’s job was to keep his men alive, and he took his job seriously. If there was a man or a woman dying on the front lines, the knight would be there, sopping up blood and healing wounds and saving lives with Magic.

It was this compassion, this dedication, that led to the knight’s downfall.

The attack came when they weren’t expecting it. Arrows rained from the sky, and enemy soldiers charged, their swords drawn and shields up.

Upon hearing the garbled screaming from one of the fallen, the knight rushed to her aid, his medic bag thrown hastily over his shoulder. He tore the arrow from her stomach and pressed a compress to the wound, muttering over and over that it would be all right. He beseeched Magic to save the woman dying in his care,  willing it to use his own body to heal another. The soldier’s eyes widened as she gripped the knight’s arm, staring over his head in terror.

There was a sharp pain as an arrow pierced the knight’s skin. He cried out in shock, staring dazedly at the arrowhead protruding from his shoulder. There must have been poison on the arrowhead, for the knight's shoulder went numb and cold and hot all at the same time.

“Watson!” shouted another soldier, who was hastily making his way towards the wounded knight. “John!”

Meanwhile, the knight pleaded with Magic to have mercy, to forget him and save the woman bleeding out next to him, but it seemed that Magic wasn't in a listening mood.

It surged through him like fire in his veins and ice water on his skin. He cried out in pain as it rushed to his shoulder, eating away at the poison until it was swallowed up whole. The knight grimaced as the Magic tried to stitch his wound, the arrow still in lodged in his skin.

The soldier who had called out to our knight snapped off the arrowhead and yanked out the shaft.

The knight groaned and clenched his eyes shut, relieved when his world finally went black.

_ Please God, let me live. _

~*~*~

Magic is not a thing to be controlled. It has its own mind, its own desires, its own fears. Magic cannot be controlled, but it _can_ be persuaded if it likes you.

If you’re clever enough, it can be captured.

But Magic remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check for added tags! I'll be updating them as I post so I don't ruin anything right away.
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta EmmaLockWrites. All mistakes are mine and not theirs.

It had been years since Sherlock could remember waking up afraid.

When he was eight years old, Sherlock had dreamt that monstrous beasts had invaded the castle, and he had woken up sweating, panting, and scared. He did the same thing now as he'd done then.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock called out, swinging his legs to the side of the bed. “Mycroft!”

The young prince took a moment to get his stocking-clad feet used to the sensation of solid ground beneath them before he walked unsteadily to the largest window in the room. It was boarded shut haphazardly, thin rays of light streaming through the cracks. Sherlock dusted off the windowsill and ran his pale fingers over the rough planks of wood. He slipped his fingers between two of the slats and pulled, wincing as the wood splintered and cracked. Grunting with the effort, the prince braced himself with one leg on the stone wall, pulling at the wooden board with all his might.

As the wood finally gave way, Sherlock fell backwards, tumbling unattractively to the floor. He hissed as he examined the splinters embedded in his skin.

Sherlock clenched his jaw, scrambled to his feet, and tore away the remaining wooden boards from the window. He stuck his head out the newly opened window, ignoring the way his stomach fell to his feet as he stared down. There were at least forty feet between the prince and the tops of the trees below him. He could barely see the ground through the snow-covered branches. Sherlock swallowed hard and backed hastily into the room, turning away from the window with a barely-contained shiver.

As sunlight streamed into the circular stone room, its contents were slowly revealed.

Farthest from the window was the bed Sherlock had just left. Next to that was a rickety old dresser that had definitely seen better days. A cursory look inside revealed a pair of sturdy work boots. The rest of the furniture included a small dining table, a chair, a sparsely stocked bookshelf, and a tall mirror hanging on the wall. There were two more  unboarded windows, smaller than the one Sherlock had just opened up. The light let in from those windows was infinitesimal, and only the smallest creature would be able to fit through them. They looked less like windows and more like missing stones.

Sherlock couldn’t see a door anywhere. Logically, if he _was_ in a tower like his surroundings suggested, there should be a trap door on the floor, or at least a winding staircase, but there was nothing. The only way out of the room was through the largest window, but even that would end in certain death. A gruesome image came to Sherlock’s mind then: pointed boughs and pine needles protruding from his pale body, the light in his eyes permanently extinguished.

Sherlock shuddered and backed away from the window, sitting heavily on his bed. The prince sighed and put his head in his hands.

There was no one there to see the tears slowly dripping down Sherlock’s face, a fact for which he was infinitely grateful.

Suddenly, the prince’s head whipped up.

Someone had changed his clothes.

It had definitely not been Sherlock who had changed him into the thick trousers and woolen tunic that he wore now. The last thing Sherlock remembered, he was in the blue formalwear his parents had forced him into for his eighteenth birthday celebration, standing in front of Moriarty, a slick-haired witch with dark, feral eyes.

And then Sherlock had blacked out.

But that wasn’t important now; what was important was that someone _had_ to have boarded those windows. Someone had boarded the windows, stocked the bookshelf, changed his clothes, dusted the furniture, and made sure no one could leave the tower.

That meant that said person was small enough to fit through one of the holes in the wall. Either that, or they were still in the tower. The latter seemed more likely.

Sherlock jumped up from the bed and checked underneath. He felt immeasurably foolish as he realized that nothing was there.

After moving the bookshelf, the table, _and_ the bed to search for a door or weakness in the stone, the prince reluctantly gave up hope. He stood still in the middle of the room, his eyes closed, wondering how in the world he was going to escape.

He saw it when he opened his eyes.

There was a face in the mirror.

~*~*~

John Watson lumbered through the streets of Northumberland, a cane in one hand and a basket of clothes in the other. The once great knight had become a launderer, having taken over his sister's job when he returned home only to find Harriet with a bottle permanently stuck in her hand.

He walked slowly from house to house, relieving himself of more and more clothes as he went. The hitch in his step and the ache in his shoulder (made worse by the cold weather) hindered him only slightly if he didn’t think about them too much, so John decided to keep busy. He didn’t mind the work; it kept him from moping around the house all day. He didn’t mind the walking, either; it kept him moving, and it kept him fit. What he did mind were the stares, the snickers, the pitying glances. The knight had decided that he could definitely live without those.

On the cusp of twenty years old, John was irreparably broken. He already knew that he was a disappointment to the village; he needn’t have been reminded by everyone who crossed his path.

John had taken to wandering out his little town just to avoid getting home. Home meant arguing with Harry, and John never really liked the heavy feeling that settled in his stomach after an argument.

As the fallen knight strolled back home, a voice called out to him. Magic, as loyal as always, buzzed protectively around John. The knight mumbled his thanks and comforted the Magic until it slowly began to relax.

“John Watson!” cried the voice.

John turned to see a round, grinning man approaching him.

“It’s me! It’s Mike,” said the man. “Mike Stamford. We used to play soldiers before you went off to war. You were the only one with the guts to do it!”

“Of course,” John replied, smiling weakly. “‘Ello, Mike. How’ve things at home been?”

Mike nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, yeah, it’s been good. It’s been great! I got married while you were off saving the kingdom. You should come by to meet the missus! I’m sure she’d just love you,” Mike assured.

John nodded and smiled stiffly. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ll definitely do that soon.”

“Oh! Mate, why don’t you pop ‘round now?” Mike asked excitedly. “Aline’s home, and I’ve just got to stop at the shops before we’ll be ready for supper. Unless you’re busy!”

“Oh, uh, Mike,” said John, “I can’t make supper, but-” The knight paused at the crestfallen look on the other man’s face. “Why don’t I join you in the shops, then?”

Mike grinned. “That’s perfect!” he exclaimed. “There’s so much to catch up on, though. We’ll have to talk when there’s more time!”

John smiled and nodded, knowing that he probably wouldn’t seek out the other man’s company despite his friendliness.

“So, you’re married now,” he said.

“Oh, right! Oh, John, she’s beautiful,” gushed Mike. “She’s the kindest, prettiest, loveliest soul you’ll ever meet.”

“I know Aline,” John muttered. “I do remember living here, you know.”

“Well, it’s been three years, John!” Mike laughed. “How much do you want me to say?”

“Tell me whatever’s most important first,” John replied easily. “What’ve I missed?”

For the first time, the other man looked sober. Mike’s eyes were cast to the ground, and he wrung his hands nervously.

“I should tell you that Wilkes’s boy disappeared this spring,” he finally sighed. “It really wouldn’t do to mention it in front of him, what with his health and all.”

“His health?”

“Oh, ever since Sebastian’s been gone, Nathan’s been in a terrible state. Can’t stop worrying, never eats, barely sleeps,” Mike explained. “It’s a terrible business, really.”

“And Wilkes just disappeared?” John asked. “Just like that?”

Mike shrugged. “Well, no. No, he set out to find the prince.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The prince locked away in St. Bart’s Tower,” Mike replied. “You know. The one from London.”

“But that’s a story,” John said even as Magic began to buzz happily in his ear. “One our mums used to tell us to get us to fall asleep.”

“So that means it's not real?”

“London’s always been ruled by the Moriarty line.”

“Or just one Moriarty.”

“Mike-”

“I've been to London while you were away,” the other man interrupted. “I've seen the tower, and I've seen the East Wind.”

“The fearsome beast that guards the tower?” John asked, a small smile on his face.

“And plucks the unworthy from the Earth. The very same,” Mike agreed. As he spoke again, his voice became quiet, somber. “I've seen what it's like there, too. In London. Everyone's afraid of Moriarty. The Magic there is… it's different. It’s not like yours.”

Magic buzzed even louder in John’s ear.

“Magic isn’t mine,” John said. “It’s more like… it takes my advice sometimes. It just likes me.”

“All right,” Mike replied easily. “Then the Magic in London is more hateful than the Magic that likes you.”

John nodded. “All right. That’s… Shouldn’t the King and Queen do something?”

“Of Northumberland?” Mike asked, and John nodded again. “Why would they do anything? They don’t want Moriarty coming after our kingdom next.”

“Would he?” John asked.

“Why not?” Mike retorted. John had to agree.

“And you think the prince is real?”

Mike nodded. “I’m certain of it.”

“And why are you telling me?”

Mike shrugged. “Lauriston’s a small town, John. Nobody else will listen to me. Nobody else is going to do anything.”

“And I will?”

A sly smile spread itself across Mike’s face. “Well, that’s up to you, mate. You and your Magic.”

“It’s not-”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s not yours,” Mike replied. “So you’ve said.”

John forced himself to laugh, and the conversation turned back to much more mundane topics. Mainly, there was the concern about food supply and livestock. After all, winter looked to be making an early appearance this year.

~*~*~

There was a face in the mirror.

Correction: There were _two_ faces in Sherlock’s mirror. The problem was that one of them wasn’t his.

The face - for it was only that - belonged to a girl no more than seventeen. She had wide brown eyes that followed Sherlock’s every move. Her expression gave away no emotion, not any thoughts nor pressure points. Her skin looked to be as grey as the stone tower itself.

Sherlock wondered if she was dead.

Then he wondered if he was already losing his mind.

The prince stared blankly at the mirror until it got dark, and the mirror stared back. Once he could no longer see the girl’s eyes, Sherlock crawled into bed, curled up under the thin blanket, and clenched his eyes shut, shivering violently as a cold wind blew through the open window.

The prince spent the next two weeks spending his days staring at the face in the mirror. That, and collecting rainwater or melting snow, depending on what the weather was like. He didn’t eat, and he barely slept, and he was always cold. Sherlock tried to tell himself it was just transport, that none of it mattered, but he couldn’t ignore the way his stomach growled or the way he could see the bones in his fingers, pale skin stretched tightly over them.

With every passing day, the window looked more and more appealing.

Sherlock had been in the tower for seventeen days when he decided that he’d rather end it swiftly than starve or freeze to death alone in the middle of nowhere.

There was the brief feeling of weightlessness, and Sherlock’s stomach jumped to his throat. He closed his eyes as wind whipped through his hair, his heart beating wildly.

Sherlock collided with something much harder than snow and much less pointed than the top of a tree. His eyes slowly fluttered open, and he let out a surprised yelp.

The prince stared into an unblinking grey eye the size of a dinner plate. The black scales (Scales?) beneath his fingers were cold and sharp to the touch. The beast huffed, and Sherlock yelped again as its hot breath hit his stomach. He looked down and realized that the creature had caught him on its large muzzle.

Sherlock gripped the beast’s snout anxiously as it began to move. It deposited him back in the tower, leaving the prince  more confused than he could ever remember being. He hated the feeling.

Confusion soon turned to anger, and Sherlock screamed out the window at the beast as it retreated into the forest.

“Why couldn’t you just let me _die?!”_

The beast surged out of the trees and towards the tower, making Sherlock scramble backwards until his back hit the stone wall farthest from the window. He barely had the sense of mind to deduce that it was, in fact, a _dragon_ that had caught him and, for some reason, decided not to eat him (yet). Sherlock’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy to fight back.

A single grey eye blinked at him before a large black snout forced its way through the window. A scream ripped its way out of Sherlock’s dry throat, and he scrambled under his bed. He didn’t want to starve or freeze to death, but he _certainly_ didn’t want to be _eaten._

At Sherlock’s outburst, the fearsome dragon immediately recoiled, slinking out of the window and lowering his head like an embarrassed child.

Sherlock slept under the bed that night, wrapped in the lone blanket available, listening attentively to the heavy breathing of the dragon outside.

The next day, Sherlock leaned out the window to find the dragon staring up at him expectantly, its eyes, one grey and one cloudy, blinking slowly. Sherlock shouted in surprise and stumbled backwards. Slowly, the prince approached the window and looked over the edge. The dragon was still there, but it made no move to either approach or escape.

Instead, it began to tap on the stone tower with one huge claw.

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened.

Morse code? Of _course_ it was Morse code. Because _that_ made sense.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock croaked. “You kept me alive for this?”

The dragon growled, showing off pointed yellow teeth, and restarted its tapping.

_M-_

“If you haven’t noticed, I’m cross with you,” replied Sherlock. “I’m going to die up here, you know, and it’ll be your fault.”

Sherlock let out a surprised laugh as the dragon scowled.

_M-Y-C-_

“Mycroft?” Sherlock guessed, his voice loud enough so the dragon could hear him. “Don’t be- This is impossible.”

The dragon arched a scaly eyebrow, and Sherlock let out a disbelieving scoff.

“No, not impossible. Just improbable,” Sherlock whispered. “Mycroft?”

The dragon let out a dignified huff.

Sherlock stared, eyes wide. “How did you-”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows and huffed again.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock hissed. “He put me in here, didn’t he?”

Mycroft had the good sense to look a little guilty as he shook his massive head.

“Mycroft!” screeched the younger prince. “Why would you do something like that?! I’m going to die here! You have to get me out of this tower.”

Mycroft shook his head, and Sherlock gasped.

“What are you good for, then?” he yelled. “Do you even care that I’m dying?”

Mycroft scowled, and Sherlock almost smiled at the familiar look on his older brother’s face.

“Why are you keeping me here?” he demanded. “I’m going to starve!”

Mycroft huffed.

_M-I-R-R-O-R_

“The mirror? You want me to ask the sodding mirror for food?”

Mycroft huffed again.

“What does that _mean?”_ the prince pleaded. “What do you want to keep me from?”

_M-O-R-I-_

“Moriarty?” Sherlock laughed maniacally. “I don’t think he can find me here, My.”

Mycroft bared his teeth at the mention of the witch’s name.

“If you're not going to help me, you might as well leave me alone!” Sherlock cried.

The young prince watched silently as Mycroft turned away and disappeared into the dense forest. Absently, Sherlock wondered how Mycroft could fit comfortably through the trees.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock called hoarsely. “Mycroft? Don't leave me here! Mycroft!”

Sherlock stood at the window for what seemed like hours, weakly calling out for his brother.

It didn't look like Mycroft was coming back anytime soon, so Sherlock chose one of the books from the shelf and curled up in bed, casting a wary glance at the face in his mirror.

He'd find a way to get out of there. He swore it.

~*~*~

It was hot, and it was sandy, and John’s skin was crawling. An arrow stuck out of his shoulder, and poison spread throughout his body, _eating, eating, eating_ away at his flesh. Men and women lay around him, mangled and bloody and dying, and John screamed with them through the pain. He ground his teeth and dug his fingers into the sand as images of the dead filled his mind, the stench of rotting flesh and metallic tang of blood pervading his thoughts, making him sick. His stomach churned and boiled.

The sky was on fire, and John was burning right along with it.

A strong wind blew sand into his eyes, and he cried out, tears forcing their way past his eyelids and down his cheeks. When he opened them again, the sky was dull grey and cold to the touch.

There was a man with dark curls and pale skin and eyes the color of the sky stood on a windowsill. Protruding bones and cracked lips and _blood blood blood-_

Crimson staining white skin and snow, violent stripes across the dead man’s face and a pool beneath his head.

There was a dying man stood on a windowsill, and John screamed with him as he stepped from the edge.

_“SHERLOCK!”_

John sat up in bed, panting, covered in sweat. He shivered in the darkness of his sister’s freezing attic, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his hands. Fat tears rolled down John’s cheeks, and he curled up in a ball on his side, clutching his pillow tightly to his chest. He let out a pathetic whine.

Magic buzzed around him, so loud that he couldn’t even entertain the idea of falling back asleep. It danced around him carelessly, suffocating him, leaving him in further darkness. Magic shouted and screamed and cried as more and more tears escaped from John’s eyes, never stopping, never resting, never letting up for just _one second,_ and John couldn’t stand it.

“Okay!” he gasped, his heart racing. “Okay. Okay. I’ll get him. Okay? I’ll get him. I’ll- I will.”

Magic silenced itself almost immediately. John sighed in relief, fresh tears spilling down his face. Every time he closed his eyes, John was met with the image of the prince’s face as he stood on the windowsill, staring down sadly at the snow-covered trees.

Eventually, John managed to fall back asleep, his arms wrapped around his pillow. The next morning, he ignored his sister's worried (but still drunken) glances and wordlessly began his laundry rounds, his mind miles away.

~*~*~

Magic knows what it wants, and it knows how to get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to point out my mistakes or inconsistencies; I'd appreciate the chance to fix them.
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos if you think it's not completely terrible. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the fantastic and amazing EmmaLockWrites. All mistakes are mine and not theirs.

Flying was certainly not the easiest thing in the world, but Mycroft Holmes strived for perfection. Since Mycroft had had over fifty years to practice, he had become quite good at it.

In the fifty-six years he’d watched over his brother’s tower, Mycroft had not managed to communicate with anyone other than the various creatures inhabiting his forest. It had, in fact, become his forest. Roads through the wood had long since been abandoned, and Mycroft was under no illusions as to why. The few humans he’d encountered had had the good sense to leave him and his territory alone; apparently they’d also spread the word about Mycroft’s presence, as no fewer than five bands of men had been dispatched to kill him.

Mycroft attributed the men’s lack of success to their exclusion of women and misunderstanding of his intentions.

That being said, Mycroft would (reluctantly) admit that being hunted by mobs of vicious men with ever-evolving weaponry was one of the most frightening things he’d ever been forced to experience.

The first time it had happened, Mycroft had been a dragon for eight months. He’d been noisily wandering through the forest when he he’d heard it. There came a shout from not far off, and Mycroft froze, cocking his giant head and listening curiously. Suddenly, four men jumped out of the brush and charged him, their axes raised and their swords drawn, their mouths twisted into menacing sneers.

Merciless blows rained down upon him; the men stabbed and slashed and sliced at his face and chest. Fortunately for Mycroft, the cold metal clinked against and bounced off his protective scales; however, it served only to further anger the men, who attacked with renewed vigor. Mycroft roared in agony as one lucky blow slipped under a scale and pierced his hide. The scale, loosened from Mycroft’s hide by the blade of the man’s sword, fell to the ground, coated with a thin layer of blood and skin.

Mycroft spread his wings, knocking several of the men off their feet. He beat his wings furiously, taking off and flying away from the men, away from their weapons, away from Sherlock’s tower. He could not let them find his little brother. They would take Sherlock from him; they would kill him and take Sherlock from him, and they wouldn’t know how to protect him.

Years later, the second band of men came after him. Mycroft would freely admit to devouring their livestock; how else was he supposed to manage? The birds and foxes in the forest weren’t worth his time or energy, but the townspeople didn’t care whether or not Mycroft starved; they simply wanted him dead.

These men had sharper swords and spears and iron shields that cost Mycroft several scales, a tooth, and a mouthful of blood. The tooth he lost with a well-placed blow to the muzzle administered by a brutish man brandishing a spear and a shield. The unpleasant taste of blood graced his snake-like tongue, and Mycroft grimaced in disgust.

He escaped like he’d had the first time: by beating his wings until the men were knocked off their feet or intimidated into running away. Mycroft snapped his jaws and growled as the men retreated, if only to make a point.

Returning to watch over Sherlock’s tower hours later, Mycroft was shocked to find the window boarded up from the inside. It was almost as shocking as it would have been to see it boarded from the outside. Horrible images flashed through Mycroft’s mind, images of Sherlock missing or dead or held hostage by some imbecile who’d managed to slither into his tower.

Mycroft didn’t feel like he should be blamed for bursting through the planks of wood keeping him from Sherlock.

He also felt that way about the scare he gave the girl standing over his brother.

“I’m helping!” she squeaked, standing over Sherlock’s sleeping form. “It was me who boarded the window and brought him more blankets. It’s a wonder he hasn’t frozen to death yet!”

Mycroft growled, and the girl crossed her arms, her eyes narrowed.

“Fine,” she said. “After I fix that window, I won’t come back until he tells me.”

With that, she stepped  _ into _ the mirror and disappeared.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at the mirror and retreated from his brother’s tower, thankful that Sherlock would be more protected than he was. No, he didn’t like that the girl could come and go whenever she pleased, but… no one else would be able to reach Sherlock this way. Plus, the girl knew about Mycroft, now, and she knew that he would relish the chance to tear apart anyone who threatened his little brother. It seemed like a risk that would ultimately pay off, and Mycroft accepted it, albeit reluctantly.

Twenty-one years into his sentence as Sherlock’s guardian, Mycroft lost sight in his left eye.

Man had gotten smarter since the last time Mycroft had to deal with them. They looked for his weak spots, aimed at the thin scales of his underbelly, his throat, his eyes. With one well-placed swish of a sword, Mycroft’s left eye was rendered useless. The cut was deep and spanned from the bridge of his nose, over his eye, to the ridge of his cheekbone, and it bled freely. Mycroft roared monstrously, rearing up on his hind legs and furiously beating his wings.

It was the wrong idea.

The men jumped at the chance to attack his vulnerable stomach, and they managed to stab him twice, hot red blood oozing from the wounds immediately. Mycroft roared and swiped at the attackers with razor sharp claws, flying away only when three of them were dead.

Miles and miles away, Mycroft landed on the side of a mountain, burrowing deep into a snowdrift, desperate to numb his body and slow his blood flow. Mycroft’s heart was beating wildly, only calming due to the insufferable cold of the snow surrounding his body. He wasn’t worried about the scales he’d lost; he would shed them once again when spring came around. No, Mycroft was worried about blood loss, and that was what he was trying to combat.

Mycroft closed his good eye and settled deeper into the snow, letting out a relieved sigh as the cold began to numb his wounds.

He didn’t think about the men he’d killed. He only thought about Sherlock and the lengths to which he would go to protect him, lengths that included three more ambushes by angry townspeople and over fifty years living in the chilly wilderness on the outskirts of the kingdom of Northumberland.

Then Sherlock had thrown himself out of his tower, and Mycroft had to save him once again. Why had it always come to Sherlock giving up?

~*~*~

“Where, oh,  _ where _ could our dear Sherlock be?” Moriarty sang, twirling an unsheathed knife in his hand as he spoke. “Where could that pesky big brother have taken him?” The witch looked behind him, smiling devilishly at the stone statues positioned behind his throne. “You two don’t have any idea, do you? Oh,  _ what _ ever. You’re no help.  _ Moran!” _

A slight, battle-hardened guard strode into the ballroom, and Moriarty smiled.

“Hello, darling,” he chirped, leering at the soldier in front of him. “Bring in the mirror, will you?”

“Yes, Sire,” Moran replied promptly. 

Moriarty grinned as his second-in-command carried a full-length mirror into the ballroom and set it down at his feet. In the reflection stood a teenage girl, her back to Moriarty, her arms crossed and shoulders shaking. Moran stood next to it stoically, ever the diligent soldier.

“Oh,  _ Molly, _ dear,” the witch drawled, speaking around the knife he used to clean his teeth. “Turn around and face me, puppet, but stay in your mirror for now.”

The girl slowly turned around, her shoulders hunched and her eyes cast down. She fidgeted with her fingers and refused to look at him. Moriarty didn’t like it.

“Yes, Sire?” Molly asked, her brown eyes flitting around the room.

_ “Look _ at me when I talk to you!” Moriarty snapped, jumping up from his throne. He sauntered up to the mirror and rapped on the glass, grinning as Molly flinched away from his fist.

“Yes, Sire, I’m sorry!” Molly cried. “I’m sorry!”

“Molly,” the witch whispered. “Open your eyes and  _ look _ at me.”

Slowly, Molly’s eyes cracked open. Moriarty grinned. Molly bit her lip.

“What can I do for you, Sire?” she asked quietly.

“Get Sherlock,” he replied easily. “Find him for me.”

“Sire-”

“I want to know where he is,” Moriarty growled.  _ “Find him, _ and make sure he stays asleep. Do you understand me?”

Molly nodded. Moriarty’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you  _ UNDERSTAND ME?” _ he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Yes, Sire!” Molly cried.

Moriarty nodded once. “All right. Go on, then. Bye-bye, now.”

Molly nodded, turned away, and walked off. The witch sighed and walked away, turning his attention to the statues behind the throne.

“Your sons are  _ so _ troublesome, aren’t they?” he asked the former King and Queen. “At least I got rid of  _ one _ problem for you. You should be thanking me. Oh, but I suppose you don’t know what’s become of him yet, do you?” Moriarty began to laugh as he bowed deeply to the statues. “Not to worry, your  _ Majesties.  _ I’ll take good care of Sherlock. Big brother, though. Hmm. What do you think I should do with the Iceman, Moran? Should I kill him and make Sherlock watch?”

Moriarty spun around to face his second.

_ “Well?” _ he demanded.

The soldier shrugged. “I wouldn’t end it so quickly, Sire.”

“I never said I’d end him  _ quickly.  _ Don’t be boring.”

“Never, Sire,” Moran replied. She shot the witch a quick smirk, and Moriarty grinned back.

“But we’ve all the time in the world to decide, don’t we, darling?”

~*~*~

Fifty-six years passed, and Moriarty remained in power, never aging a day. He knew where Sherlock was now, thanks to Molly, and there was no sign of him waking. Moriarty wasn’t done playing king yet. The witch had decided to call on Sherlock when he was bored. He figured it’d be another three years -  _ at least _ \- before he ordered Magic to rouse the prince.

For now, he was content to watch the people in his kingdom suffer. The best part of it all was that they couldn’t age either. No one died, although so many tried. No no no. Moriarty couldn’t allow that.

No one in Moriarty’s kingdom died unless it was by his own hand.

The mirror had been silent for over fifty years. It stood proudly next to the throne, in perfect position for Molly to report back if she ever had news. A fine layer of dust had gathered on it, and spiderwebs marred the intricate golden frame.

The mirror was silent until one day it wasn’t.

“Sire?” squeaked the girl in the mirror.

Moriarty sighed. “Yes, Molly?”

“Sire, it’s Sherlock. He’s-”

The witch howled with laughter. “Sherlock? Is he still sleeping? Oh, did the poor little prince have a  _ nightmare?” _

“No, Sire. It’s only that… Sherlock’s awake.”

_ “He’s WHAT?!” _

~*~*~

Magic keeps its word, and something interesting had happened, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter this time, but I still hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Leave a comment or kudos if you liked it :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check added tags for warnings!
> 
> Thanks to my beta EmmaLockWrites. Any and all mistakes you find are mine and not theirs.
> 
> Kinda short chapter again. Hope you still enjoy!

“Ask the mirror,” Sherlock muttered, pacing back and forth in the small space of his room. “The _mirror._ What good will the bloody mirror do me?” The prince spun around to glare at the offending piece of furniture. “You don’t happen to have any food, do you? Water? A blanket or two?”

Sherlock watched rapturously as the girl in the mirror blinked once, twice, and then three times before smiling sweetly.

“You only had to ask,” she said, and she promptly disappeared.

The prince stared at the mirror, his jaw dropped and his fingers twitching, itching for something new to hold. Minutes passed, and the girl in the mirror did not return. Sherlock, bored out of his mind, sat on the windowsill and watched the snow fall, his legs dangling over the edge. He wouldn’t jump this time, of course. No, he wouldn’t jump from anywhere if Mycroft was still around to catch him.

Speaking of the meddling git, Sherlock hadn’t seen his brother for a few days. Mycroft had saved him, argued with him, and stormed off into the woods. Perhaps, Sherlock thought, he was visiting Sherrinford, making sure their littlest brother was safe. There really wasn’t anyplace else for Mycroft to be, was there?

Of course Mycroft had to spend more time with Ford than with Sherlock. Ford had never liked to be alone for long, much unlike Mycroft and Sherlock. Sherlock could remember, on four separate occasions, Ford bursting into the library, demanding to see either Mycroft or Sherlock _immediately_ because it was tedious and boring being all by himself. He was much like Sherlock in that regard; neither of them could stand boredom for long. It’s just that they chose to alleviate that boredom differently.

The next time Mycroft showed up, Sherlock thought he would give him a message to Ford, just to say hello. Until then, the prince would wait.

Two hours later, the girl in the mirror finally reappeared holding three woolen blankets, a wicker basket hanging from one arm. She stepped out of the mirror, her expression carefully blank. Her cheeks were pink, and she looked startlingly _alive,_ not at all as if she’d spent any time trapped in something as cold and unfeeling as glass.

“Here we are,” the girl said, handing Sherlock her pile of blankets. She placed the wicker basket on the tiny dining table and turned to Sherlock once more. “Those blankets should keep you warm enough. And I’ve managed to find you some food, too. Sorry it took me so long. Not many people cooking at this hour.”

Sherlock glanced out the window, noticing for the first time the full moon hanging delicately in the sky.

“Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

“I had to settle for some stale bread and a few apples,” she said. “And there’s a canteen of ale or mead or something in there as well. I think it’s ale. I’m not quite sure.”

Sherlock nodded, standing stiffly in the middle of the room as the girl said her goodbyes. He didn’t move towards the bed or the basket, his eyes fixed on the girl who had stepped out of the mirror.

“I won’t be back for a while,” she said. “I’ll pop in every now and then, I think, to check on you, but don’t expect me back too soon, all right?”

“Does Mycroft know you’re here?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

The girl cocked her head. “Who?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The dragon. His name is Mycroft.”

“Oh. The dragon. Yes, he does.”

“And who are you?”

“Shouldn’t you be able to tell? You’re the great Prince Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the girl. “It’s Prince William,” he said, “and just Sherlock. How did you know my name?”

The girl shrugged. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“You look my age, but you’re older than that, much older, aren’t you? You’re Magic or at least influenced by Magic; that much is clear by the way you stepped out of the mirror. I don’t know why you’re here or who you are or how you knew where to find me, but I doubt I can trust you.”

“I brought you food,” the girl replied. “Why shouldn’t you trust me?”

“You’ve been watching me ever since I woke up, haven’t you?” Sherlock accused. “Ah, no, I see. You’ve been watching me for years - decades, even.”

The girl stood still, watching Sherlock with steady brown eyes.

“Is that all?” she asked.

“You work for someone,” the prince replied easily.

The girl shrugged. “Is that all?” she repeated.

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Molly,” the girl replied. “I must be off, now.”

Sherlock’s feet seemed to be stuck to the floor, and he watched silently as Molly stepped into the mirror and disappeared.

 _She could be dangerous,_ Sherlock’s brain supplied.

“Unlikely,” he told himself. “More like the person she’s _working for_ is dangerous.”

_You shouldn’t trust her._

Sherlock probably shouldn’t have been speaking to himself; it would only isolate him further, wouldn’t it? He probably should’ve been worried that he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

“No, but it could be interesting!”

_Interesting enough to stay in here when you’ve been given a chance to escape?_

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed. _“Oh!”_

He looked down at the blankets in his hand, a sly smile spreading across his face. He’d need more, of course, but that could easily be arranged. For now, Sherlock devoured whatever was in the wicker basket Molly had brought him, curled up in bed with three new blankets, and refused to sleep. The prince’s body was exhausted, and he was emotionally drained from his earlier suicide attempt, but his brain was whirring and spinning and buzzing, already forming a plan of escape that most certainly did not involve dying.

Sherlock woke to the sound of incessant tapping and scraping at stone. He frowned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. The prince couldn’t remember falling asleep the night before; one moment, Sherlock was staring at the full moon, and the next, he had to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight streaming into the room through the missing stones in the walls. He wondered absently how many years had passed this time.

Rolling out of bed, Sherlock glanced at the (empty, at least for the moment) mirror and shuffled to the window. He resolutely ignored the scruff growing on his chin and cheeks, instead focusing on decoding his brother’s message.

“Morning, Mycroft,” he greeted, wrapping the warmest blanket around his thin shoulders. “Slow down, would you?”

Mycroft huffed, his breath clearly visible in the winter air. Just for a moment, Sherlock allowed himself a faint smile.

_H-E-L-L-O B-R-O-T-H-E-R M-I-N-E_

“This conversation’s going to take hours at this rate,” Sherlock replied jovially. “At least you can’t talk over me anymore, right, Mycroft?”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and rose up on his hind legs, bracing himself on Sherlock’s tower. Reflexively, Sherlock backed away from the window, scowling at his older brother. Just to prove that he wasn’t totally put off by his older brother’s display, Sherlock clambered onto the windowsill and let his legs dangle freely over the edge, an apple in hand.

“How’s little Ford?” Sherlock asked, biting into the fruit. “I assume that’s where you were yesterday, yes?”

Sherlock bit into the apple again, expecting his older brother to begin tapping. Instead, Mycroft bowed his head. Sherlock’s stomach dropped to his feet, and the apple fell out of his hand and down, down, down until it hit the snow-covered ground.

“Myc?” he questioned. “He’s not- He’s all right, isn’t he? Sherrinford’s all right?”

Mycroft refused to look up, slowly shaking his massive head.

“Tell me he’s alive, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered, his voice cracking.

Silence.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He lost his balance as he turned to retreat into his room, and he nearly fell off the side of the tower. It didn’t matter much to the prince anymore. Sherlock stumbled and fell on all fours, tears already leaking from his eyes. His chest tightened, and his lungs seemed about ready to burst from behind his ribs. A guttural sob ripped its way out of Sherlock’s body. The sound echoed through the empty forest, offering him no comfort.

He wailed until his throat gave out and his voice was hoarse. He lay there on the floor panting heavily, staring at the dull stones in front of him. He could see his breath. Stray tears had soaked into his dark hair, and it stuck to the side of his face as he struggled to his feet.

Sherlock stumbled to the window, where Mycroft remained, his forehead pressed to the stone wall of the tower.

“Myc,” he croaked. “Mycroft.”

His older brother looked up, scaly eyebrows furrowed.

“Get me out of here,” Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft scowled and shook his head.

“I’ll get out of here myself, then,” Sherlock snapped, “and then I’ll kill Moriarty.”

_D-O-N-T Y-O-_

“I won’t sit here and listen to you if you won’t help me escape!” Sherlock yelled. His throat ached. “You just put me here because you couldn’t protect him and now he’s _dead_ and someone has to pay for it!”

Mycroft growled and narrowed his giant eyes. Sherlock narrowed his own, glaring heatedly at his brother.

_S-A-F-E_

Sherlock scoffed. “Just watch. I can be out of here anytime I like.”

Mycroft huffed and slithered off into the forest, but Sherlock had a feeling he wasn’t far off. The young prince let his tired eyes roam around the room; they finally settled on the blankets heaped on his bed. He cocked his head, a plan forming in his quick-thinking brain.

Sherlock walked over to the mirror and rubbed his scraggly chin. He really could use a shave, he thought.

He might have to ask for a blade.

While he was at it, he could ask for a few more blankets. It was getting unbearably cold, after all, and he needed _something_ to keep him warm.

~*~*~

Dull. Dull. Dull.

John limped through his dreary town, an empty wicker basket balanced on one hip. In his free hand was his cane. He took the shortest way home, not bothering to breath in the clean outside air. He would get plenty of it on the way to the prince’s tower.

Once John returned to his sister’s house, he began packing. He’d barely gotten anything of importance before his sister started screeching in protest, probably waking half of Lauriston with her shrieking.

“How’s Clara?” he asked as she stumbled out of her room.

“Sod off, John,” she spat, her eyes narrowing. “What’re you doing with all that?”

John looked down at the leather bag he’d found (only after an hour of searching for the blasted thing), the dried meat and bread he thought his sister could live without, and his bow and quiver. A rope, obviously, since the prince was locked up in a _tower_ of all places.

“Packing,” he answered simply. “I think I’ll need more arrows.”

“And where do you think you’re going?” she shouted, her blue eyes flashing.

“Not far from here,” John replied as he folded a change of clothes. “St. Bart’s tower. And then, I assume, to London.”

 _“London?!_ What the _hell_ kind of business do you have being in London?”

“Oh, you know,” John replied. “Rescuing the prince, which I’m sure Moriarty won’t be happy about. So. There’s _that_ to look forward to.”

Harry’s jaw dropped open. “The prince,” she muttered. “St. Bart’s… dear God, John. Are you insane?”

John only shrugged. “I don’t think so. I just had a dream-”

“A dream? Johnny!”

“And Magic seems to want me to go, so I figured it might not be so bad to listen to it,” John reasoned, getting to his feet. “You can feel it too, right?”

Harry narrowed her eyes and followed him into the pantry. “You know I’ve never been able to control Magic.”

“You don’t _control_ it, Harry. You ask favors,” John replied easily. He gathered what supplies he thought he would need for the journey - mostly medical - and brushed past Harry on the way out of the pantry. “That’s not the answer to the question I asked you.”

“I haven’t been able to sleep right ever since you got home, you know,” Harry complained. “You say Magic doesn’t belong to anyone, but it follows you. It _likes_ you, John. It doesn’t like me.”

“But you _do_ feel it?”

“Of course I bloody feel it! How could I not?” Harry demanded. “It gets so loud I can’t sleep at night.”

“You’ll be able to sleep once I leave.”

“Johnny, do you even know his name?”

John shrugged again, double-checking everything he’d packed. “Magic told me. I don't remember. I imagine it begins with ‘Prince,’ but I’m lost after that.”

Unamused, Harry slammed a plate of eggs on the table. John winced at the sound.

“You really think this is a good idea?” she demanded.

“Considering that everyone who’s tried to rescue him before is dead or missing, no, not really.”

“And you think, because Magic likes you, you’re safe?”

John shook his head. “No,” he said plainly.

“So why do you think it’s a good idea to go?”

“It’s probably _not_ a good idea,” John replied, grabbing a spoon and shoveling breakfast into his mouth. He spoke through mouthfuls of food. “I could die, but I don’t think I will.”

“That’s what you said before you went off to war,” Harry reminded. “And look how that turned out.”

“Well, I’m not dead,” John argued. He ignored Harry’s glare. “Plus, I can’t come back any worse than I am now.”

“You _could_ not come back at all.”

“I guess.”

“John-”

“What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice rising for the first time since they’d started talking. “I have to go if I want it to shut up, and there’s nothing for me here. What’s the harm done if I go or not?”

“You could die!” Harry argued.

“There’s nothing for me here!” John repeated, slamming his fist on the table. He inhaled sharply as he realized what he’d said. “Harry-”

“No,” his sister whispered. “Get out.”

“Harry, you know I didn’t-”

“No! Get out! And remember that if there’s nothing here for you now, there won’t be anything here for you when you get back,” Harry seethed. She stood on her toes, reaching for a bottle perched on top of the cabinets. “Not even me. Hell, _especially_ not me.”

John swallowed hard, grabbed his bag, and slung his quiver over his shoulder.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, although he wasn’t entirely sure.

Suddenly, the bottle that had been in Harry’s hands shattered on the wall next to him. John flinched and stared blankly at the shards of glass littering the floor.

“Be careful when you clean that up,” he said, and he slipped out the door without another word.

John paused in front of the forest, examining the ground under his feet. The road from Lauriston faded away here, shifting from cobblestone to dirt path. The snow, absent from the frequently-walked streets of the town, was abundant here. The forest roads were rarely traveled during the winter months. John was crazy for daring to use them.

The former knight took a deep breath, staring into the unforgiving woods.

With a map in one hand and his cane in the other, John set off to find St. Bart’s Tower. Judging by the map Mike had lent him, the tower was around fifty kilometers away; John figured that he could make it there in a little less than three days if all went well, four days if it snowed any more than it already had, or at least a week if something went very, very wrong.

It was just John’s luck that it began to snow only hours after he’d started his journey. The sky was almost completely white, and John couldn’t see more than three feet in front of him. He kept moving, trudging through the snow diligently, one hand raised to shield his eyes.

John decided that the risk of getting lost was less daunting than the risk of freezing to death, so he stuck to the forest path and lumbered on.

Hours later, the snow finally died down. It was a light, airy snow that picked up with the slightest of breezes, and John hated it. Every time he put his foot down, he sank up to his knee in cold, wet snow. He growled in irritation and kept walking, eager to get to St. Barts, rescue the prince’s sleeping arse, and get back home (if he still had one) as quickly as possible.

As the sun began to sink into the horizon, John realized that he might actually have to set up camp. He made a small fire, ate his nightly ration of dried meat and stale bread, and created a makeshift tent from two tarps and a tree. There was barely enough room for one person to fit comfortably, and a small part of John realized that its size might be a problem on the way back. On the way to London. Of course, John wouldn't force anything on the prince if it made him uncomfortable. If the prince didn't want to share shelter, which John was quickly realizing was the only option, as he didn't have supplies to make another one, then… well, John wouldn't sleep in the snow. He'd likely die that way.

As soon as John had that last thought, he began to turn it over in his mind.

He might actually die. He felt the same way about it now that he had before storming off to Afghanistan: if he had to die, he’d die doing the right thing.

John stared up at the tree he’d huddled under, wondering absently if he’d have to suffer nightmares out in the cold. It was so unlike Afghanistan, with its blistering heat and sand and sun, that John saw no reason he’d transport himself back there in weather like this.

No, what concerned John was Magic. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that Magic always worried him. He was half-convinced Magic was the only reason he’d been able to travel so far in just one day. Staring up at the shivering needles of the tree above him, John wondered if Magic would have any say in his dreams that night.

He needn’t have wondered.

For the second time is as many nights, John witnessed the death of the beautiful prince.

Glassy eyes the color of the sky, sunken into a pale, wasted face, stared unblinkingly at something over John’s shoulder. Dark curls fell limp over the man’s white forehead. The only real color on that angular face was on the prince’s lips, as blue as the ocean in summer. The prince’s clothes hung off his thin frame, several sizes too big for him. His shirt collar had slipped over one shoulder, exposing a thin, protruding collarbone. Blue fingers were curled delicately on the prince’s lap, his hands resting peacefully, as if the man had expected to die and chose the most dignified position he could. John ached for this man he didn’t know, wondered if he would be too late to save him, if he was already too late to save him.

John didn’t remember telling his body to move towards the man, to crouch down and search for a pulse, but he did it anyway. As expected, there were no signs of life. The man’s pulse was nonexistent, and his skin was as cold as the snow falling outside. Silently, John lowered the prince’s eyelids.

A freezing blue hand grasped John’s wrist as he pulled away from the body. John’s gaze snapped to the prince’s face, where it was met with terrified grey eyes.

“Help me,” the prince gasped, his deep voice hoarse. “God, please, help me!”

John tore himself from the body, horrified, and woke up in the woods, breathing like he'd just outrun a hare.

Half an hour later, John's shelter was disassembled, and he was on the path to St. Bart’s Tower once again, his bag on his back and his cane in his hand. It hadn’t snowed any more that night, and John thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t need to worry about five feet of snow. He felt perfectly fine with the three he already had to trek through, and he really didn’t think he needed any more.

Cold wind nipped at John’s nose and burned his lungs. A thin layer of sweat formed on his forehead, his chest, his back. The knight cursed the weather for killing him and his body for betraying him.

Snow crunched underfoot with every step. John panted heavily, his breath escaping his lips and billowing out like tendrils of smoke emitted from a great dragon. Eventually he got so tired of seeing his breath, of slowly letting his jaw go numb, that he wrapped a scarf around his face and settled at that. The weight of his bags made John’s back ache, but he walked on as diligently as ever.

The forest was still, and the only sound audible besides the crunching of the snow under John’s boots was the howling of the wind. A little black and white bird landed on a tree not too far from John, sitting intently, watching. It was soon joined by another.

Magic buzzed urgently around John, and he set his jaw, gritting his teeth angrily.

“You know, I can take care of myself,” John replied, and Magic was gone. John knew it lurked somewhere in the shadows under the trees, but he was grateful for the temporary reprieve from its worrying.

As the knight continued his trek through the snow, one bird threw its head back and let out a great staccato call. John paused and eyed it warily, pursing his lips in distaste. He wondered if he would be granted the chance for fresh meat again so soon.

John had just taken a deep breath and reached for his bow, carefully sliding an arrow out of his quiver, when something solid and feathery struck the back of his head. He wobbled a bit but maintained his balance.

The call rang out again, and John winced at its intensity. The buzzing in his ears was no longer Magic’s fault; it was his own adrenaline mixed with the song of the magpies. Several more of the creatures emerged from the branches of various trees, all surrounding John. He cursed to himself as the birds began their assault.

It was a blur of feathers and endless drone of flapping wings and rattling song. The magpies’ sharp claws barely made a mark on John’s sturdy jacket, but the exposed skin of his face and hands remained vulnerable to every scratch, scrape, gash, and tear the birds inflicted upon him. They screeched as they attacked, aiming for his eyes and ears, relentless in their anger. Never straying far from their target, the birds flew high into the air and plummeted back down upon the knight, using both their weight and gravity against him.

John couldn’t even keep his eyes open for fear they’d be pecked out. He clenched them shut, nocked an arrow, and let it fly, only peeking once to predict the bird’s path of flight. There was a shrill call for help as John’s arrow hit its target, and the sound tore at John’s heart. He opened his eyes for just a second; it was long enough to see the magpie drop to the ground and stain the snow with its blood.

The other birds - four of them - wailed for their fallen brother. Seeing his chance and dreading his need to take it, John nocked another arrow.

This arrow, like the last, did not miss. It pierced the bird’s skin with sickening accuracy, causing the other three to begin their wailing all over again. It would have been over then had the magpies not come after him again.

It wasn’t long before they too were defeated, two lying motionlessly in the crimson-stained snow, one flying hastily away, squawking as it went. The sound was a heartbreaking one, broken and terrified. John had heard that cry before, not from a bird but from within the heart of man; he recognized it in his own heart, identified it immediately as the feeling of watching a friend die, the life leave their eyes, and their body becoming this… _thing_ that will never be the same _._

There were four magpies dead in the snow. Four of them. John tried not to think about what that meant. Instead, the knight nocked another arrow, aiming carefully at the last retreating magpie.

He lowered his weapon. He lowered his weapon, closed his eyes, and breathed in the cold winter air.

John opened his eyes and screamed.

Where the magpies had lain dead, four humans lay in their place. Three women and a man lay unmoving in the snow, blood drying on their naked skin. John recoiled violently, taking mental note of their injuries.

There was an arrow through the black woman’s neck, blood pouring out of the wound and out of her mouth, staining both her teeth and the snow around her. Her eyes were completely white, and into the dark skin over her heart was carved a single letter.

_M_

The next two women are much the same, except their arrows had pierced their heart and forehead, respectively. The man, the first to die, had been hit in the stomach.

Humans possessed much more blood than magpies, and John’s nose filled with the stench of it. He stared at the bodies in front of him, the bodies he’d put there. He needed his arrows back, but there was no way he’d be able to…

But that's what he did. John tore the arrows from the bodies he'd slain, nearly gagging as blood oozed out of the wounds.

 _Familiars,_ a far-off voice reminded him. _They serve someone, and that someone wants you dead._

The words did little to comfort him. Instead, John took a calming breath and turned away from the bodies, determined to find a way around them.

If the stiffening of his muscles and the twinging of his leg were anything to go by, John could safely assume he wouldn’t be getting any sleep that night, haunted by the images of glassy eyes and blank expressions cemented in this brain.

~*~*~

There are some things Magic cannot do, and some things it cannot change, no matter how hard it tries.

And, _God,_ it tries to keep the images of the dead away from its human, to keep him pure of heart and mind and soul, but it can only do so much.

Disguising the dead is not one of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you didn't know, familiars are like witches' companions. They can change shape (according to the witch's whim, mostly) and serve the witch for life.
> 
> The "four magpies" thing comes from the nursery rhyme. "One for sorrow/Two for mirth/Three for a wedding/Four for death."
> 
> There's a change in posting schedule since I'm doing a lot of writing at the moment. I'd really like to avoid getting behind, and I don't want to be put in the situation where I don't have a chapter to post. That's why I'm changing the next post date from two weeks from now to three. Instead of posting on May 5, I'll post on May 12.
> 
> I'm working on an original short story for a scholarship that's due on May 15; it kind of takes precedence over this fanfic. Thanks for understanding :)
> 
> That being said, please leave a comment or kudos if you liked it!
> 
> (Don't worry; they'll meet soon.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my fantastic beta EmmaLockWrites. All mistakes you find are mine and not theirs.
> 
> Sorry for the extra wait!

“Hello?” Sherlock called into the mirror. “Hello? Are you in there?”

There was no answer. The girl's face wasn't even there to answer, anyway. Sherlock was alone. Again. Although, if Molly regularly spent so much time away from the tower, it would be easier to escape without her immediate notice. Sherlock still glared at the glass in front of him.

“Do show up soon,” he said, “or else I might freeze to death.”

Wrapping two of his four blankets around himself, Sherlock curled up on his bed, his eyes wide open, staring blankly outside. He would wait another day for the girl to come back. After that, he'd have to use whatever he already had. Four blankets wasn't nearly enough, but Sherlock had to get out. He had to get out.

Minutes ticked by like hours. Hunger ached deep in the prince’s stomach. His mouth was dry, his tongue heavy, his lips cracked and bleeding. Exhaustion and dehydration called to the prince, a sweet, somber promise of rest if only he would allow his eyes to slip closed.

Sherlock kept his eyes open until they too were so dry they stung.

There was no sound except that of a gentle wind, rustling the trees and howling through the missing stones in the tower's side. Everything was white or green or grey; Sherlock never thought he would yearn for a color, didn't think it possible. But now, oh, what he wouldn't give to see something truly blue.

Sherlock had prided himself, once, on his ability to ignore his body's demands. Never, though, had he been so alone, so unfocused.

Some time later, Molly’s face reappeared in the mirror. Sherlock didn’t move towards it.

“I need food,” he called out instead, hoping she would hear him. “Blankets. A blade.”

“Not in your state,” the girl replied promptly. Sherlock nearly sighed in relief. “A blade? Really? You look ready to drop dead. Are you all right?”

“Cold,” Sherlock replied. “Hungry.”

“I gave you food just earlier,” Molly replied, confused.

“Time passes. I need more, or I’ll die.”

“Not for a while yet.”

Sherlock frowned, and he sat up sluggishly, staring at Molly with narrowed eyes.

“You work for him. Moriarty. Don't you?”

Wind whipped through the holes in the stone wall. Sherlock slowly got to his feet, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

Molly shrugged. “Took you long enough to figure out.”

“Tell him I'm-”

“No!” Molly cried, jerking backwards. “I won’t tell him anything.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Fear is a human error.”

Molly shook her head. “No. Not with him. Not with…”

“Not with Moriarty?” Sherlock snapped. “He doesn’t deserve anything but hate.”

A bird landed on the windowsill. 

The girl wrung her fragile hands. “Who ever gets what they deserve?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously around the small room.

It was magpie.

Sherlock cocked his head. “What are you afraid of, Molly? Is he here?” As Sherlock continued, Molly began to tremble, her eyes wide and skin pale. “He killed my little brother. He was nine.”

“Stop talking,” Molly warned, backing away.

“He killed Sherrinford, Molly,” Sherlock persisted. He took one step forward for every two Molly took back. “I'm going to kill him.”

“Stop talking!” Molly screeched. “I'll have to tell him!”

“You said you wouldn't.”

“I don't send messages!” Molly cried. “But I do report to him!”

“Molly, look! Help me get out of here,” Sherlock demanded. “I’ll make sure you’re safe. You don’t have to be afraid of him anymore.”

“Stop it!”

“I can beat him, but only if I get out of here.”

_ “Stop!” _ Molly screamed, tears falling down her face. “He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. God, Sherlock, he’ll-”

“I’m already dying!” Sherlock snarled.

Molly squeaked in fear and backed into the mirror, disappearing immediately. Sherlock’s shoulders dropped. The prince remained still, staring blankly at his own morbid reflection. Blood rushed in Sherlock’s ears. He took a small step towards the mirror and raised his fingertips to the glass. It was cold and solid against his skin.

Sherlock pulled his fist back and crashed it against the face of the mirror, shouting in surprise as pain shot through his right arm. His entire hand trembled, and his knuckles, split open by the impact, oozed blood. Shocked, Sherlock raised his gaze to the cracked mirror. A dozen silver eyes stared back at the prince, the shattered glass distorting his face.

Slowly, Sherlock closed his fist, crying out at the sharp pain that followed.

“Broken,” he hissed. “You  _ idiot.” _

The prince breathed deeply and cradled his hand to his chest, his eyes closed tightly.

After a minute had passed, Sherlock opened his eyes and began preparations for his escape. With his whole hand, he removed the mirror from the wall and let it fall to the floor, shattering completely. He picked up one of the largest shards, grimacing as it sliced his skin. Gripping the shard tightly, Sherlock began to saw at one of his blankets, slicing and hacking at the wool until it was completely torn in two. He beamed down at it triumphantly, a thin sweat forming on his brow and back and blood trickling down his fingers.

By the time he had repeated the action with his other three blankets and tied them all together, Sherlock was breathing laboriously, almost completely drained. He dragged his bed closer to the window and tied one end of his makeshift rope to the bedpost.

The prince peered over the edge of the windowsill, where a small clearing granted the perfect space to lower himself to freedom. Unfortunately, the rope only fell for about fifty of the nearly one hundred foot drop to the snow-covered ground.

Feeling absolutely ridiculous, Sherlock added his woolen trousers and shirt to the length of the rope. Besides his pants, only the prince’s stockings and boots remained on his body; he would rather die than walk barefoot through mountains of snow. Shivering, Sherlock took a deep breath, questioned his sanity, and climbed out over the windowsill.

After a treacherous fifty or so feet, Sherlock was left, literally, at the end of his rope. He sighed, shifting his grip on the wool, tightening his thin legs around the fabric. Cold air kissed Sherlock’s skin -  _ all _ of it - and he shuddered as goosebumps rose on his arms and legs.

Just as Sherlock began to consider how to fall to the ground without killing himself, his older brother emerged from the cover of the forest. Mycroft paused, cocked his head, and growled deep in his throat.

“Don’t look at me!” Sherlock screeched. 

His brother growled more insistently.

“I don’t care if you’re upset!”

Mycroft snorted, hot air billowing out of his nostrils. Sherlock yelped as the dragon’s breath washed over him.

“That smells terrible!” complained Sherlock. “Stop that!”

Suddenly, Mycroft tensed. He scanned the clearing as if searching for danger before disappearing once more into the forest. Puzzled, Sherlock stared after him.

An unfamiliar voice rang out in the clearing. “Are you out of your  _ mind?” _

The prince jerked in surprise and peered down at the blond speck calling to him.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sir John Watson,” the speck replied. “Can I ask what you’re doing up there and why you’re, um…?”

Sherlock blushed, his face burning with embarrassment. “No, you may not.”

“Are you all right? I can’t see you all that well from here.”

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock lied.

“What’s your name?” asked Sir Watson. “Are you the prince?”

“You ask entirely too many questions, Sir Watson,” Sherlock replied. “But if you must know, then my name is Prince William. No clue if I’m  _ the _ prince.”

“Of London?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No,” he scoffed. “Of Piccadilly.” 

“Then it’s true,” Sir Watson called. “The stories.”

“I’ve never heard any stories about myself,” Sherlock said. He swallowed hard, pursed his lips, and called, “Sir Watson, have you any idea how I can get down from here without breaking my neck?”

Sherlock nearly cried when he heard the knight’s answer. It was just his luck to be found by someone absolutely insane.

“Jump!”

~*~*~

John had had plenty of time to imagine meeting the prince. In most of those fantasies, the prince was still asleep. In John’s defense, that’s what the stories had said. Not once did John imagine meeting the prince under these circumstances.

Prince William, wearing only a pair of pants, dangled freely from the tower, gripping a makeshift rope within an inch of its life. 

“Have you any idea how I can get down from here without breaking my neck?”

John was reasonably sure that Magic wouldn’t let Prince William fall to his death.

“Jump!”

“What?!” the prince squawked. “No! Who’s out of their mind now?”

“Fair enough,” John called back. Magic buzzed and shouted and rejoiced in John’s ears. He frowned, lowered his voice, and complained, “Can’t you  _ do _ something?”

If Magic had a voice, John imagined it’d be giving him an earful right about now.

_ First you tell me I need to back off when you’re being attacked by magpies, and now you want my help saving the prince? When I’m the one who brought you to him in the first place? _

“All right, all right,” John muttered. “At least help  _ me _ do something.”

John threw his pack to the ground and began to rifle through it. He shouted in triumph, pulled out the rope he’d packed, and tied one end of it to an arrow. 

Carefully nocking his arrow, John called, “Your Highness, stay very,  _ very _ still!”

“What are you-? Your aim can’t  _ possibly _ be good enough-”

“Stay still!” John shouted. “I won’t hit you if you don’t move.”

The prince stiffened; John breathed in slowly, taking careful aim. The woods were quiet. Magic was silent, watching closely. John’s heart pounded in his chest. 

John let out a breath, and with it, his arrow.

The arrow hit its mark, piercing the fabric next to the prince’s head.

“Impressive,” Prince William called, “or maybe you’re just lucky.”

John shrugged. “Maybe it’s Magic. Grab the arrow and tie the rope to yours!”

“I’d gathered that much, thank you.”

John’s heart pounded violently as the prince slowly lowered himself to the ground. When the prince was closer to John’s height, the knight ran to Prince William’s side and grabbed his waist with both hands.

“I can do it myself,” the prince snapped as John gently set him on the ground.

John ignored his comment in favor of handing him a bundle of extra clothes. The prince opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, blinking rapidly down at the fabric in John’s hands.

“You’re lucky I packed an extra set, Your Highness.”

The prince looked up at him and blinked twice before grabbing the clothes and dressing one-handedly.

“Wait a minute. What happened to your hand?” John demanded, grabbing the prince’s arm. “You told me you were all right!”

“Sir Watson, if you’d let me get my trousers on, at  _ least-” _

“Let me take care of-”

“-would be much appreciated if-”

“-before you damage it any further!”

“-do this after I’ve gotten dressed!”

John scowled. “Your Highness, I- Be careful, all right?”

Prince William scoffed, pulling John’s thick woolen jumper over his head. “Do you have anything to eat?”

John held up his pack. “Let me set your hand first.”

“It’s just broken.”

“Yes, Your Highness, I’d gathered that much, thank you,” John replied, parroting the prince’s words back at him. To John’s surprise, the prince merely smirked. “You can eat while I fix your hand.”

“All right, doctor. Go ahead and take a look.”

Gently, John examined the prince’s right hand as he shoved food in his mouth with the left, which John noticed was covered in blood. The broken hand was bruised and swollen, and Prince William inhaled sharply - presumably in pain - several times throughout John’s examination.

As he wound a strand of gauze around the injury, John caught Prince William’s eye.

“Slow down over there. We have to make that food last the three days it takes to get from here to the nearest town.”

“Your hometown,” Prince William interjected.

“It’s just Lauriston,” John corrected. “So, not really. You’ll get sick if you eat too much at once. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?” The knight realized what he had said and who he was speaking to. “Uh, Your Highness, I didn’t mean-”

“Sherlock, please.”

“What?”

“Sherlock,” the prince repeated. “My given name is William, but I prefer Sherlock. And you can speak to me whatever way you like; I’ll surely do the same to you. I find formality tedious.”

The knight furrowed his brows, continuing his administrations in silence. John double-checked his work setting Sherlock’s bone before wordlessly urging Magic to do whatever it could to heal the prince’s hand. Magic sang a soft melody in John’s ear, wrapped itself around John’s fingers, and soaked into the prince’s skin.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, tearing his hand away. He stepped back, a look of great suspicion on his face. “You have Magic.”

John shrugged. “I don’t  _ have _ Magic. I don’t control it or anything like that. No one can. Magic just seems to like me.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I know Magic,” he insisted.

“Look, I wish it wouldn’t follow me around all the time, but it does, so I’m asking it for help,” John explained. “Do you want your hand to heal faster or not?”

Slowly, Sherlock relaxed. He sighed and held out his bleeding hand. John, feeling a wee bit triumphant, bandaged it quickly and efficiently.

“How do you know if you’re any good as a doctor if Magic does everything for you?”

John stiffened. “I don’t.”

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. “Don’t know if you’re any good as a doctor or don’t let Magic do everything for you?”

“Both,” John snapped. Sherlock hissed as John tightened his bandages (perhaps with a little more force than was  _ really  _ necessary).

“Careful, doctor.”

“How’d you know I was a doctor?”

“The same way I know you fought in Afghanistan or Iraq, you have a taste for danger, and your limp is psychosomatic,” Sherlock went on. “The skin above your wrist is paler than the skin of your hands; where would you get a tan like that at this time of year? You’ve been abroad but not sunbathing; not doing much of anything relaxing, I should think, but that’s not really a problem for you, is it? No, because you’ve gone to war,  _ survived _ it, and you’re still here in the middle of a dangerous forest talking to a man you’ve just met who could be up to any number of dangerous things. The limp was the easiest. You have a cane but aren’t using it even now. You dropped it by those trees when you noticed me, by the way. Perhaps you’ll need it after we part ways.”

John stared at the prince, his jaw dropped. “Part ways? What do you mean ‘part ways?’” he demanded. “You don’t get to be all extraordinary like that and then  _ leave _ me here! Not after I’ve gotten you down from that tower and wrapped your wounds and given you half our food.”

Sherlock blinked several times, his mouth twisted in a confused frown. “You thought that was… extraordinary?”

“Of course it was,” snapped John. “It was…  _ quite _ extraordinary. Don’t you know?”

The prince shook his head. “No. Everyone I’ve met has hated it.”

“Idiots,” John replied simply. “Why do you think you're getting away from me so quickly?”

“I'm going to London.”

“Yeah, I already figured that. I don't have enough supplies for the trek to London, but if we head back to Lauriston, we can gather some,” John reasoned. “It's safer to take the more used trade routes, anyway, not the one through the woods. You don't even know the trade routes, do you?”

Scowling, Sherlock straightened himself to his full height. “What do you know of London? What’s it like?”

John shrugged. “I’ll tell you on the way to town.”

“Oh, don’t be cruel, John.”

“I’m not  _ being _ cruel,” the knight insisted. “We both need food and a place to sleep, you even more than I. I can get better medical supplies in Lauriston. Trust me.”

“That’s a week or more out of my way,” the prince argued.

“Well, what’s the rush?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock replied, his countenance darkening. “I can’t afford to waste any more time. I’ve wasted enough standing around arguing with you.”

John pursed his lips. “All right. Tell me where London is.”

“What? London’s London.”

“Yeah, but where is it?” John questioned. “The direction. Point in the direction of London, and if you’re anywhere close, I’ll let you go. And  _ don’t _ read it from the way I scratch my ear or something.”

Sherlock turned in a slow circle, his grey eyes searching the woods around them. Finally, with a royal air of confidence, he pointed north.

John pointed southwest.

_ “That’s _ where London is,” he said. “Say you manage to convince me that you’ll be fine on your own - which has  _ no _ chance of happening, by the way. What do you do then? Get lost or robbed and die? Freeze or starve to death? What good is going to London if you don’t make it there alive?”

“I’m certainly more intelligent than that,” Sherlock defended.

“Prove it,” John replied. “Don’t be an idiot, and follow me.”

Sherlock scowled. “After you, oh great navigator Watson.”

John just shook his head, keeping his triumph to himself. “Come on,” he said. “Lauriston’s due west.”

“I know that.”

“I'm sure.”

“Of course I do!”

~*~*~

Magic knows that its humans are blown glass, all shimmering silver and glittering gold, blues and greens and yellows, swirling and looping and shining brighter together than they ever could have apart.

It will try not to break them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! It took much too long for them to meet.
> 
> Sorry that this chapter's a little short! The ones I'm working on now are a little longer. Hopefully that trend will continue.
> 
> I'm still a little behind on writing, but for now, the schedule will stay the same with a new chapter every 2 weeks.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!! Leave kudos or a comment if you liked it, didn't like it, or have any suggestions. I'd love to hear them!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter this update!
> 
> Not beta'd. All mistakes are mine!

The sky was still grey, but the same could not be said for Sherlock’s mood.

“I could tell by the turn-ups on his trousers that the child wasn’t his,” he continued. “And the  _ look _ on her face didn’t help her case at all.”

John was giggling, his laugh bright and startlingly loud in the silent forest. The men walked side by side. It was quickly found out that John was the more sociable of the two of them, with the knight doing most of the directing of the conversation and Sherlock happy to follow wherever he went. John had asked about what Sherlock did before all this happened, and there was really only one answer.

“What did your mother have to say about this?” the knight asked. “Your deductions and all that?”

“I’ve been reliably informed that it’s not  _ polite _ to tell my family of my aunt’s numerous affairs.”

“I’ve a feeling that doesn’t stop you.”

“Why should it?” Sherlock asked. “Isn’t it kinder to tell her husband?”

John shrugged. “Maybe, but not in front of a dinner party.”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. “Why not?”

“It’s a bit… not good,” John replied. “You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant. Can’t you tell when to keep quiet?”

“No,” the prince snapped, stiffening. “I don’t have to ‘keep quiet’ just because everyone else is an idiot. Do you know where we’re going?”

“I’ve travelled to and from Lauriston in every way imaginable. Yes, I know where we’re going. More than you do, at any rate.”

“Travelling on predetermined paths through a relatively harmless forest isn’t exactly impressive.”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s a dragon in these woods,” John said, a small, unbelieving smile on his face. “How many times do you think I’ve had to face it, hm?”

“None at all,” Sherlock replied promptly. “The only question is where he is.”

John shot Sherlock a puzzled glance before turning his gaze to the heavens.

“It’ll be dark soon. We should set up camp a little ways off the path.”

“You want to sleep out here in this weather?” Sherlock asked, gesturing angrily towards the snow with injured hands.

The knight stared at him incredulously. “Where  _ else _ are we going to sleep?” he asked. “Do you want me to pull an inn out of my arse?”

“Can’t we just walk through the night?”

“No! We'll freeze.”

“Not if we keep moving.”

“Then exhaustion will kill us instead,” John reasoned. “We'll walk until the sun hits the tops of the trees. That should give us enough time to set up camp and settle in before we can't tell our fingers from our toes.”

“No.”

“And we'll have to… there's only one tent, so we'll have to share.”

“I don't want to sleep,” Sherlock insisted.

“Look, I'm sorry a tent in the woods isn't up to your standards, but it's not like I could drag a king-size out here.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I don't really care  _ where _ or  _ how  _ we set up camp, John. Just know I won't be sleeping.”

The doctor sighed. “Sherlock, you  _ have _ to sleep.”

“No I don't. My body's just transport,” the prince explained. “I don't need anything.”

_ “Sherlock.  _ What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a  _ problem,”  _ Sherlock snapped. “We’re going to waste time.”

John paused, turned to Sherlock, and glared.

“I will waste all the time I want,” John said, “ and you will follow me because you don’t know where you’re going.”

Sherlock scowled. “I am  _ not _ stopping to set up camp.”

They stopped to set up camp.

Leaving John to construct their tent alone, the prince stood shivering, his eyes scanning the trees for… anything. A flash of his brother’s tail, maybe a pair of glowing eyes. Any dignity or aloofness in the action was squandered by the fact that Sherlock had pulled his arms into his jumper, letting the sleeves hang freely at his sides. While the jumper was thick and kept him warm, the sleeves were over three inches too short for him anyway, exposing his hands and wrists until John had forced him to take his gloves. Too bad they were too small to fit around his bandaged palms.

He had no coat, as John had only brought his own, and Sherlock began to miss the blankets he had survived with before his escape from the tower. He was lucky whoever had stolen his clothes (probably Molly - he shuddered to think of it) had left his boots in the wardrobe.

“Hey, Sherlock?”

The prince turned to see a poorly-concealed smile on the knight’s face.

“You look ridiculous,” John giggled, his cheeks and ears red (though that might have more to do with the temperature than anything else). “Are you cold?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“No,” he lied, his teeth chattering. “I’m fine.”

John didn’t look convinced.

“Well, I’m going to make a fire outside the shelter, okay? You should get in so-”

“I can do that.”

“Do what?”

“Build a fire,” Sherlock clarified. “Obviously.”

John shook his head disbelievingly but crawled into the tent anyway. “If you want to build the fire with your broken hands, go ahead.”

And Sherlock did.

In no time, a little fire pit, carved into the snow to protect it from the wind, crackled and burned delightfully in front of the little shelter. Sherlock finally crawled into their makeshift tent. There was little space between them, their legs and sides pressing together comfortingly. 

“I don’t know if I’m really surprised,” John mused. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “On one hand, you’re a prince, and you’ve been asleep for half a century, so you really shouldn’t… you know, know how to do that. I can’t imagine your princely duties including building a fire.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Dull.”

John laughed. “There! So, you’re a prince, but on the other hand, you’re brilliant. Of  _ course _ you would know how to build a fire. You can probably hunt rabbits in the snow and spot a bird in the air from ten miles away at night. While it’s raining.”

“I’ve never liked hunting,” Sherlock replied. “I liked my father’s hunting dogs more than the action itself.”

“Too  _ dull?” _

“Too… It’s different, if you find a dead animal somewhere. That’s good for experiments. There’s mystery around it. How did it die, how long has it been dead, how old is it? It’s not the same as killing one.”

There was a pause before John spoke.

“I’m a doctor,” he said. “Never liked taking lives. No sense in it, you know?”

“No. You’re meant to be saving them,” Sherlock stated, all matter-of-fact.“When you’re not taking them, that is,  _ Sir _ Watson.”

John scowled. “War is different.”

“Yes,” the prince agreed. “And so is family. I won’t be sleeping tonight, John. You might as well get to it, though.”

“Right,” John replied, reclining with a sigh. “Wasting time, and all that.”

“Precisely.”

Sherlock shifted and leaned back against the rough bark of the tree they’d used as one half of their shelter. He closed his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

“You all right?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Said the pot to the kettle.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. “What does that mean?”

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look. “It’s just an expression. You know. Means you’re a hypocrite. You’ve missed a lot, haven’t you?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Right, right. Wasting time,” John agreed. “Goodnight, Sherlock. Try not to stay up all night, and don’t wander off just ‘cause you’re bored.”

The knight turned away and curled up on himself, presumably dropping off to sleep. Sherlock envied him. 

Exhaustion tugged insistently at Sherlock’s mind, threatening to drag him under. He ran his fingers through his hair, tearing at the knots that had formed after weeks of mistreatment. The prince’s eyelids fell shut, and he bit his tongue, hard. If Sherlock couldn’t force himself to stay awake, the pain would have to.

~*~*~

“John! John, wake up. The sun’s out.”

It was, in John’s opinion, much too early to be awake. Apparently, Sherlock didn’t share the same sentiment.

The knight groaned as he sat up, his bones popping. Roughing it out in the woods really wasn’t doing any wonders for his shoulder. He took one look at Sherlock and sighed.

“You look terrible.”

“How kind of you,” Sherlock rasped, his bloodshot eyes narrowed.

“Have you slept at all?”

“No.”

_ “Sherlock.” _

“What?” the prince snapped, his lips curling into a sneer. “I told you I wasn’t going to sleep; don’t act so surprised.”

John shook his head as Sherlock burst out of their shelter, stumbling as he went. After rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, John emerged from the tent, mentally preparing to strike it down (without any help from Sherlock) and continue their trek to Lauriston. Two more days, if all went well.

After John dismantled their shelter, he and Sherlock resumed their journey, each of them devouring portions of dried meat and stale loaves. In one hand, John’s cane. In the other, a hunk of bread.

Sherlock was quiet. John wasn’t surprised. According to the other man, he hadn’t gotten any sleep since he’d been locked away in that tower. Sleep deprivation to the degree Sherlock was suffering… John had never been there, not even in the army, nor did he ever want to be.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, risking a glance at the prince, who lumbered along about two feet behind him.

“Shut up.”

John rolled his eyes. “You know, for someone who said he wasn’t going to act like a royal prick, you’re acting an awful lot like a royal prick.”

“When did I say that?” Sherlock questioned. John didn’t like how slow the prince was to respond.

“You said formality is tedious, and that you would call me John, so I might as well call you Sherlock.”

“That’s not- I told you I would call you by your name, not that I wouldn’t be myself.”

John averted his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like  _ that.” _

Sherlock didn’t reply, shuffling over the snow-covered path in silence. They walked for a while like that, the air between them suffocatingly cold. It burned John’s throat and lungs, biting ruthlessly at his nose and fingers.

A magpie sat perched on the bough of a nearby tree, comfortably nestled in the pine needles. John glared at the bird when he noticed it, and he swore its beady eyes followed him as they passed.

There was a soft thud behind him, and John turned to investigate the sound. Sherlock lay crumpled on the ground, his face half-buried in snow, his whole body shivering.

“Sherlock!” John cried, rushing to the prince’s side. He put Sherlock’s head in his lap and checked his pulse. It was weak and erratic, but it was there. “Sherlock, wake up. Wake up! Give me five minutes, yeah? Just five minutes, and I can make sure you’re all right.”

The prince opened his eyes sluggishly, staring past John’s shoulder and into the bleak grey sky.

“Sherlock! Stay awake for me.”

“John? ‘M tired,” he muttered, his eyes drifting shut. “Don’ lemme sleep.”

“Bastard,” John hissed. “You absolute bastard. Why couldn’t you just sleep when I asked you to?”

“Don’t wanna wake up there,” Sherlock replied.

“Don’t want to wake up where?” John insisted, desperate to keep the other man talking.

As the knight emptied out the contents of his bag, Sherlock unhelpfully replied, “There.”

Sherlock grunted as John maneuvered him onto a tarp and dragged him (with no small amount of work) a little ways off the path. The knight carefully assembled their shelter around the sleeping prince, at least grateful that he was, in fact, sleeping. Trust Sherlock to pass out from exhaustion not even two hours into the day.

Once John was sure the prince was settled, he began to work on building a fire. It pained him to admit Sherlock had been able to get  _ his  _ fire going in much shorter a time than John’s, but that was an internal conflict for another time.

Magic buzzed in John’s ears. He wished he could shoo it away as easily as the insects it sounded like.

“I’d ask you to wake him up,” John said, “but he really just needs to sleep.”

Magic seemed to agree.

John crawled into the tent and lay next to the sleeping prince, hoping to keep him warm. Surely Sherlock wouldn’t mind if John just lay next to him. Nothing would  _ happen; _ they’d barely even touch. It was easy to remember that although John had helped Sherlock down from his tower, there was nothing stopping the prince from chopping off his head or hanging him or burning him at the stake or feeding him to the dogs or however else people were executed fifty years ago. The pressure to stay on Sherlock’s good side was, well, more than a bit high.

Deciding that he may as well get some sleep if they weren’t going to be moving anywhere, John closed his eyes and settled in.

He was roused not much later by the surprisingly soft sound of growling outside their tent. The knight screwed up his mouth, scrunched up his nose, and took a very deep breath before slipping quietly from the cover of their shelter, his left hand on the hilt of the dagger he kept sheathed on his thigh.

The woods were silent except for John’s breathing. He covered his mouth with his free hand and crept stealthily around their little campsite, scanning the trees for any sign of life.

Warm, wet air billowed over John, causing him to shiver and jump at the sensation.

The knight turned around slowly, his jaw dropped open. In front of him stood a great black beast with menacing claws and teeth like sharpened daggers. It had to be sixty feet tall, at least, and its head was the size of a carriage. The dragon growled deep in his throat, and John prayed to every deity out there that Sherlock would sleep through whatever was about to happen. The knight hoped that the dragon would eat him quickly and leave the prince alone.

John stared into the beast’s giant grey eye, his heart pounding nearly out of his chest.

“Please don’t let it eat me,” John whispered to Magic. He could have sworn Magic laughed in response. That didn’t worry John at all.

The dragon snorted, sending out another wave of hot air towards John. The force and surprise of it nearly knocked the knight off his feet. Other than the occasional growl or huff, the dragon remained still, eying John with intense focus. It made no move to pounce or attack, but John gripped the hilt of his dagger all the same.

Narrowing its eyes, the dragon began to tap on its own scales.

_ H-E-L-L-O S-I-R W-A-T-S-O-N _

John stared incredulously at the beast. “Morse code?” he asked. 

The dragon nodded, and John let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Dear God, I’m going insane.”

The dragon shook its head.

“Definitely. Definitely insane,” John muttered to himself. He let go of his dagger and ran his hands through his short blond hair. “I’m talking to a dragon.”

The beast continued its tapping, its tail flicking steadily back and forth.

“No, no, I’m not trying to translate that, or I’ll go mad,” John laughed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Just don’t eat me, all right?”

Silver eyes moved to the tent, only half-covered by the needles of a tree.

“Look,” John demanded, his voice stern, “I know you can understand me, so don’t even think about it. I also know I can’t kill you, but  _ you _ should know that if you harm him, I will die trying.”

The beast cocked his head, narrowing his eyes.

_ You barely know him, John, _ the knight thought.  _ Loyal already? _

_ I’d do the same for anyone. _

_ Would you, though? _

“I don’t think you want to hurt me. Am I right?”

Baring its teeth, the dragon growled one final time before slithering off into the woods.

John let out a shaky breath, gripping his cane with white-knuckled fingers. He didn’t think he really needed it anymore, but it was helpful with the snow, at least. He might make Sherlock use it once the idiot woke up, just in case he decided to pass out again.

The knight stared blankly into the forest, his heartbeat steadily returning to normal. Slowly, John crawled back into their shelter, lying next to Sherlock after giving the prince a quick once-over. While John was too tense to fall asleep immediately, he managed to nod off after what must have been an hour of nervous fidgeting.

_ So  _ that _ was the dragon Sherlock had been talking about,  _ was his last thought before he drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~

The tower was cold and grey and lonely, and Sherlock was going mad. He’d die in this tower. He’d starve or freeze to death before he could manage to escape, and he was never going to see Mummy or Father or Mycroft or Sherrinford ever again and-

Everything in his tower slowly turned to ice: the walls, the floors, the bundle of blankets he’d nestled under. Everything was ice except for Sherlock, who sat in the middle of it all shivering violently, frozen tears decorating his face.

Sherlock woke with one arm wrapped loosely around John’s waist and his nose in sandy blond hair. He stiffened, sure that the knight would awaken at any moment and throw Sherlock off him; when John remained still, his breathing steady, the prince allowed himself to relax. He wasn’t in the tower; he wasn’t anywhere near it. He was in the middle of the forest next to the knight who’d promised to take him to London, and it wasn’t all horrible. John was solid and warm and real, and Sherlock swallowed hard as he turned away from him. He curled in on himself, hissing as he jostled his injured hands.

Reluctantly, the prince realized that it was significantly colder without John’s warmth pressed against him. He turned back to the knight and shifted  _ just _ close enough to feel the blond’s body warmth. It was as good a time as any to study John’s face. The knight’s skin was tan, his hair golden and straw-colored from the Afghan sun. His lips were a bit thin, and his nose was a bit round, and he was generally unassuming, but… But John was  _ interesting _ , and he liked Sherlock’s deductions, and no one had  _ liked _ his deductions before. Sherlock was on his way to kill the only other person who had.

Satisfied with his (meager) examination, the prince let his eyelids fall shut and his mind wander. A few moments’ thought proved that they really should get moving if they wanted to get anywhere today, so Sherlock turned back to John and pushed him onto his stomach.

The knight grunted in mild surprise as his position was shifted. He gazed up at Sherlock with one blue ( _ very _ blue) eye.

“What is it, Your Highness?”

Sherlock frowned. “I told you not to call me that.”

“Yeah, it was a joke that time. ‘S fine,” John muttered. “You all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock replied. “We need to get moving.”

“Would you wait a minute?” complained the knight, finally sitting up. “You passed out from exhaustion, you know that?”

“Yes, I know that,” Sherlock snapped. “We need to make up for-”

“We need to  _ stay here _ until I know you’re fit to continue,” John snapped, his voice offering no room for questions. “You would have frozen to death if I wasn’t there to help you.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a sneer. “Oh, because I clearly needed saving.”

The look on John’s face was a cross between rage and disbelief. His jaw was set, and his eyes were hard. Sherlock didn’t like that look on the knight, not at all.

“Yes, you did, and you’re lucky I was there, or else you would have died,” John said. “If I were you, I would listen to me. Yes, we’re going to get moving, but give me a minute to pack all this up, yeah?”

Sherlock frowned and exited the tent, leaving the knight to crawl out whenever he was ready.

Within fifteen minutes, they were off again, eating breakfast as they went. John had an unbearably smug smile on his face, and Sherlock wanted to bite it off.

“What are you grinning about?” he snapped, shooting a glare at the sauntering knight.

“Nothing,” John replied. “Maybe, when we stop to rest tonight, you’ll actually rest.”

Sherlock scoffed “Unlikely. I don’t need much sleep. Never have.”

John raised his golden eyebrows. “Yesterday-”

“Yesterday was different,” Sherlock insisted.

John didn’t seem convinced. “How so?”

“I haven’t slept well in weeks.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that in order for you to get a good night’s rest, you regularly work yourself to exhaustion because it’s convenient for you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I sleep when I have to.”

“Obviously not,” John replied.

“My body is merely transport, John.”

“Sure. Just make sure you don’t pass out again, and we’ll be fine. That means actually taking care of yourself.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Sherlock snapped. “I would have thought the army would have taken the mother hen out of you, John.”

The knight turned to Sherlock and shot him a lopsided grin. “It didn’t take the  _ doctor  _ out of me.”

“Evidently not,” Sherlock replied. He frowned as he recalled their first meeting. “Tell me about London.”

John raised a questioning eyebrow, but, much to Sherlock’s relief, he simply got on with it and began to speak.

~*~*~

London was dark and grim and every bad adjective John could think of. The country was cold year-round, grey all day long, and poorer and poorer every year. No one had been to the kingdom of London in nearly fifty years; the closest anyone dared go was just on the outskirts of Northumberland, right before the trees were dead and wilted. There was a fog covering the innermost cities, although that might have been just an old wives’ tale. The truth was that John didn’t know any of this for sure; it was all speculation based on what he’d heard from his neighbors who’d heard from  _ their _ neighbors who’d heard from their cousins down in Westminster that someone  _ they _ knew had seen ferocious beasts wandering the streets of Baskerville, hungry for human flesh.

None of it was very reliable, and John said so.

“Tell me anyway,” Sherlock insisted. John suspected the prince was missing home and obliged.

“They say that no one dies there,” John started slowly. “I’ve heard-”

“‘They?’” the prince snapped. “Who’s ‘ _ they?’” _

John sighed. “I don’t know, Sherlock. People talk.”

“People are idiots.”

“Do you want me to tell you about London or not?” John glanced at Sherlock in time to catch his nod of assent. “All right, then. No one dies there, but it’s not- It’s not good, like maybe you’d think it was. Death is better than where they are, I’m told. There’s no sunlight, as far as I know. It’s dark and cold and generally not very cheery. Famine, drought, those types of things.”

“Trade?”

“No one’s traded with London since the Moriartys’ reign began,” John said. “They take what they want, and you hope it’s not everything.”

“Just one. There’s just one Moriarty.”

John pursed his lips. “That’s what I was afraid of. So he’s been ruling this whole time.”

The knight cast a wary glance at Sherlock, only to find his as white as the snow they trudged through.

“My parents are in London,” the prince murmured. “And Ford.”

John stiffened. “Ford?”

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock supplied, his voice tight. 

He said no more on the matter, and no amount of prodding could get the prince to hand out any more information.

They walked in relative silence, the only noise the sound of their breathing and their feet kicking up snow. The sun began to sink into the sea of trees hours after they had last spoken. John felt Sherlock's eyes on him the whole time he set up their measly shelter.

John built their fire this time, watching Sherlock carefully from the corner of his eye. The prince sat inside their shelter quietly. It wasn’t until John crawled inside and lay on his stomach that Sherlock began to speak.

“How long until we’re in Lauriston?” he asked.

“If we wake up early enough, we’ll be there by nightfall tomorrow,” John said. “That’s if we don’t have any more fainting spells. Might want to get some sleep tonight, then.”

“Perhaps.”

“Why are-”

“That’s none of your business,” Sherlock snapped. John felt the prince move and shift beside him as he got comfortable for the night. “Go to sleep.”

John shrugged and let sleep overtake him.

As usual, it didn’t keep him for long. He startled awake, a light sweat coating his brow. Something held his arms down, weighed him down, kept him  _ down.  _ He couldn’t get up, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop stop stop-

John grabbed at the thing across his chest and nearly cried (in relief, of course) when he touched scratchy wool and goosebumped flesh. The knight sighed and let himself slowly relax. Sherlock had managed to finally get to sleep, and apparently that meant wrapping himself around John like an octopus. Worriedly, John glanced over at Sherlock's face. The prince was still, his face soft and curls wild and knotted. John wasn’t going to lie; the prince could’ve used a bath. They both could’ve, really, but they were almost to Lauriston, where all would be well.

The sky outside was still far from light, so John wrapped an arm around the prince, buried his nose into his hair, and closed his eyes once more.

In the morning, the knight and the prince would set off again, but for now, John slept.

~*~*~

Magic knows great loss and pain and suffering; maybe that’s why it admires John Watson - because he has seen all three and made it out alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a pain to write for some reason. Hope it wasn't a pain to read.
> 
> I don't usually write smut (because reasons), but I was wondering what anybody reading this might think about including it in this fic. Yay or nay?
> 
> Leave a comment or give kudos if you liked it, hated it, or have any suggestions. Feedback fuels me :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer chapter again!! Not beta'd or britpicked. Sorry for any mistakes you see.

After a long day of awkward conversation, John and Sherlock finally reached Lauriston. The moon was high in the sky, casting a pale light on all it touched. Wet from the brief snowfall the boys had had to trudge through earlier, the cobblestone streets of Lauriston sparkled softly in the moonlight. Following the knight dutifully through town, Sherlock wondered if he would get to sleep in a real bed again, or if John would make him take the floor.

No, John would jump at the chance to sacrifice his own health for Sherlock's; that much was apparent by the way John had given him as much food as he wanted, preferring to eat what little Sherlock couldn't handle.

John would take the floor, but his shoulder and leg would either seize or become sore in the morning, further delaying the progress on Sherlock's journey to London.

Sherlock would have to take the floor.

Would John's selflessness allow that?

The knight paused in front of one of the smallest houses on the block. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh when they stopped moving; he couldn't remember being this tired in ages.

"We'll have to be quiet," John whispered, unlocking the door. "My sister's either drunk or asleep. We'll hope she's asleep."

If Sherlock had believed in luck, he would have said they were lucky to find John's sister asleep at the dining table, an opened bottle of alcohol on the table next to her. John turned to Sherlock, put a finger to his lips, and lead him up a small flight of stairs.

"You sleep in the attic?" Sherlock hissed, frowning at the dust gathering in the corners of the room.

John shot him a halfhearted glare. "I'm sorry it's not a  _ palace, _ Your Highness."

"I wasn't offended on  _ my _ behalf," Sherlock whispered back. "Your wounded shoulder won't allow you to take the floor, but the risk of wounded pride won't let you take the bed, will it?"

John scowled, and Sherlock scowled back.

"Amazing," John grumbled. “You’re still bloody amazing.”

Sherlock was silent. Not often did anyone compliment his deductions; since he'd met the knight, John hadn't shown any sign of stopping.

"Do you know you keep doing that?" the prince asked, raising an eyebrow.

John's face flushed. "Sorry. I'll stop."

"No, it's fine," Sherlock whispered. "So you're taking the bed?"

"Not a chance," John replied.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I probably won't sleep that much, anyway."

"You are sleeping tonight," John insisted. "I will tie you to this bed if I have to."

"Sir Watson,  I don't know you nearly well enough to allow that."

John's jaw clenched, and Sherlock smirked. "I'll sleep, but only on the floor."

The knight threw up his hands. "Fine. Fine! Have it your way, then.”

Hours later, when John had long since been asleep, Sherlock was staring blankly at the ceiling. The prince had truly tried to sleep, but it seemed it would not come to him, for every time he closed his eyes, he was transported back to his cold, unforgiving tower. 

John’s room was poorly insulated, and Sherlock shivered. Goosebumps rose on his arms, his hair standing on end. Clutching his blanket close to his body with his injured hands, Sherlock slowly struggled to his feet and crawled into John’s bed. The mattress dipped, and Sherlock winced, waiting for John to wake up. When the knight only shifted, the prince let out a quiet relieved sigh. He lay quietly next to John, inches of space between them, careful not to touch.

John’s bed - and John - was warmer than the floor, and the pillow softer beneath the prince’s head. It wasn’t long before Sherlock drifted off to sleep, comforted by the knight’s gentle snoring and steady breathing. He didn’t even notice the magpie sitting on the windowsill.

~*~*~

John woke gradually, breathing deeply and stretching his good arm. The bed next to him was warm, and the blanket he’d given Sherlock was in a pile at the foot of it.

_ That’s one way to compromise, _ John thought.  _ Stubborn git. _

The prince, however, was nowhere to be seen.

A crash from downstairs answered the question of where he was. In response, there came a door slam and a high-pitched scream.

John leapt out of bed and rushed downstairs to find his sister brandishing a broom, screeching accusatorily at an uncharacteristically frightened-looking Sherlock. His grey eyes were wide, and he held his broken hands up in surrender. When he saw John, his eyes grew impossibly wider.

“John,” the prince called, “get her away from me!”

Harry had no qualms about screaming over him.

“Get out of my house! Get out!”

“Harry!” John yelled, standing between his sister and the prince. “Harry, calm down!”

“Why are  _ you _ here?” the redhead spat, rounding on her brother. “And who’s he?”

“We need medical supplies,” John replied. “This is Sherlock. He’s- er, he’s the prince. The one who was locked in St. Bart’s.”

“Oh, God, you’re insane.”

“Harry-”

“And you’re not real!” Harry accused, pointing angrily over John’s shoulder.

Sherlock scoffed. “That’d be a relief, to be honest. Think of the possibilities of being imaginary.”

“Can you two- Sherlock, go back upstairs. Harry, put the broom down!”

“John-”

“There’s nothing for you here,” Harry said, her breath hitching. “Get out!”

“You can’t kick me out of my own house.”

“It’s not yours!”

“It’s not yours,  _ either!”  _ John shouted. Magic buzzed loudly in his ears.

“I don’t care! Get out,” Harry insisted, the broom still clenched tightly in her hands, “and piss off!”

“I’m getting medical supplies, and then I’m taking Sherlock to London.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. “You’ll die!”

“Maybe.”

“You always do this! You always have to go off and be the hero, make everyone love you, prove you’re just the  _ best _ of all of us, right, Johnny?”

“Well, if you put down the  _ bottle _ for ten minutes-”

_ “Shut up!” _

“Someone’s got to say it, and since  _ Clara _ had the good sense to leave you-”

Harry gasped. “How  _ dare _ you?! If Dad were-”

“Dad was worse than you are!” John screamed back. “You’re gonna drink yourself to death just like he did.”

“And wouldn’t that just be terrible for  _ you?” _

“Harry, come on!”

“You said nothing, John,  _ nothing! _ Not even me.”

John stiffened, Harry’s words finally catching up to him. He stared at his sister, at what he’d done to her, and for a moment he regretted not doing worse. The knight opened his mouth to say something he didn’t mean when the front door slammed, snapping his attention away from his sister.

“Go on,” Harry whispered. Tears dripped slowly down her cheeks, catching on her lashes. “Run after your prince, and leave me alone.”

John stared at his sister for a moment longer, hating them both from a place very deep within himself, before barrelling out the door. He found Sherlock just outside the house, his knees drawn up to his chest. Through dark lashes, grey eyes focused on John.

It was a strange picture: a shoddily-dressed prince cowering on a dirty cobblestone road outside John’s little house. Even now, John could picture Sherlock with a crown on his head and heavy rings adoring his fingers, wearing the finest clothes and surrounded by luxury.

“Are you all right?” the knight asked.

“Fine. Off to London, I suppose?”

John shook his head. “We still need supplies. Come with me.”

“Are you going to keep shouting?”

“What? No.”

“Good,” Sherlock replied. “It’s irritating.”

John sighed. “Just follow me.”

~*~*~

Mike Stamford, a fellow doctor and friend of John’s, was surprisingly talkative. His wife, though cleverer than her husband, was much more reserved. She was more than a few years older than Sherlock, with a kindly face and obvious motherly instincts. Sherlock liked her immediately.

“They’ll tire themselves out soon enough,” she said to Sherlock, who was staring in fascination as Mike and John ‘caught up.’ “Then we’ll get back to the important bit. How’d you hurt your hands, dear?”

“I punched a mirror,” Sherlock replied easily. “What important bit?”

“You two can’t go to London alone,” Aline said, frowning. “When have you last had a bath?”

“What do you mean we can’t? Why not?”

“Well, it’s not safe. If you’re going to overthrow the king, then you’ll need a lot more people on your side. You’re outnumbered all of London to two.”

“I’ll rally the people once we get there,” Sherlock replied. “Father used to do it all the time. They all loved Father. They’ll want to help him. They have to.”

Aline’s eyes softened, and she cupped Sherlock’s cheeks. 

“Oh, you’re just a baby, aren’t you?”

“I’m eighteen,” the prince answered, pulling away.

“So I’m right. Let me unwrap your hands, dear, and then you’ll have a bath.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “But John-”

“You know I’m a doctor,” Aline replied, her eyebrows raised. “But if you would rather John be the one to redo them…”

“I would.”

Aline smiled. “Of course, dear. I’ll just be a moment, then. You can wait in the bedroom if you like.”

It took ten minutes for Aline to make Sherlock’s bath, three minutes for Sherlock to realize he couldn’t wash anything without causing himself a great deal of pain, and fifteen minutes for Aline to help him. The woman spent the most time on his hair, combing out dirt and twisting his curls back into shape.

“I’m going to wash those clothes,” Aline said, wiping soapy hands on her dress. “Certainly Mike has something that will fit you.”

Sherlock watched silently as she closed the bedroom door. He stayed in the water, his eyes roaming around the small room. His head snapped to the door as it opened; it was John who walked in rather than Aline.

“John,” Sherlock said, quickly closing his knees.

“Hey, sorry,” the blond greeted, grimacing. “Mike’s letting us use some of their supplies. Aline said I could- uh, if you want me to leave-”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock rushed, his cheeks turning pink. He looked at John, refusing to be embarrassed. The knight wasn’t fazed, his hesitation caused by Sherlock’s.

“Let me look at your hands,” John said, pulling a chair to Sherlock’s side. “You might need stitches. Aline’s better at those usually-”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock refused. “You’ve got Magic in your medical kit.”

John smiled tightly and gently dried Sherlock’s hands. The prince watched quietly as John threaded a needle and began to sew the gashes on his left hand. Sherlock winced every time the needle pierced his skin, and John apologized with every reaction.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he said over and over. “I don’t have anything to ease the pain. It’s not even in stores, but I wouldn’t have money for it if it was. You don’t- You’ve never had to worry about that, have you?”

“So, have you figured it out yet?” the prince asked, changing the subject with less tact than he’d like to admit.

John’s eyebrows furrowed as he tied the last stitch. “Figured what out?”

“If you’re a good doctor because Magic likes you, or if Magic likes you because you’re a good doctor.”

Studiously avoiding Sherlock’s gaze as well as his questions, the knight spread salve over the work he’d just done. He then wrapped Sherlock’s left hand to keep the stitches safe and the right to heal his broken bones.

“I suppose you know the answer.”

“The real fun is seeing when you’ll figure it out for yourself.”

“Arse.”

“An accurate analysis, Sir Watson.”

The knight just rolled his eyes.

“Are you going to let me ask it for help this time?” John asked, his fingertips just brushing the back of Sherlock’s hands.

“Magic?”

“What else?”

Sherlock considered John for a moment before agreeing.

The knight cradled Sherlock’s hands in his own, closed his eyes, and waited. Sherlock watched in fascination as John worked. Then came a sensation like red hot iron being poured over Sherlock’s skin, and he jerked back, water splashing over the side of the tub.

“Are you trying to kill me?!”

“That doesn’t usually happen,” John replied, frowning. “Are you all right?”

Sherlock’s hands shook. “I think it just set my bones.”

John shouted as Sherlock tried to clench his fist.

_ “Set _ doesn’t mean _ healed!” _

“I know that, obviously,” Sherlock snapped. “Haven’t you heard of scientific curiosity?”

“I  _ have _ heard of difficult patients, but none so difficult as you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Aline wandered back into the room, holding a small bundle of clothes.

“John, I’ll help Sherlock get dressed,” she said. “You can go on and talk to Mike if you want.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the woman as John closed the door behind him.

“You won’t let us go to London,” he said.

“It’s not a good idea,” Aline stated. “You have no supplies, no money, no reinforcements. How do you expect to take the throne from Moriarty? Are you going to ask for it?”

The prince scowled. “Then what do you suggest?”

~*~*~

Mike and Aline sent them off with just enough money to get to the capital of Northumberland, where the King lived with his elderly aunt. John had been relieved to hear that the road to the capital was peppered with towns every fifty kilometers or so; there would be no camping in the woods for weeks on end. They would be able to take real baths, sleep in real beds, and eat real food.

As the pair walked on, John found his mind wandering towards how they might convince the King to give them counsel. There was the truth, but that was always the hardest to believe. John had been attacked by a hoard of familiars, rescued a prince from a tower, and seen a dragon all in the last week. How likely was the King to believe that?

John glanced over his shoulder; the prince hadn’t insulted him in over an hour - not that it ever really fazed him - and John was getting worried.

“You all right back there?”

“Fine.”

John turned, his eyebrows knit together. “Are you sure? You’ve been quiet ever since we left the forest. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “If we could keep moving, John…”

The blond nodded, his eyes still searching the prince’s.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, sure. You’ll tell me if something’s not right, won’t you?”

“If I really must.”

“Of course you do.”

Neither of them spoke for long after that, silently trudging along in the snow not yet cleared from the road. All around them was covered in the stuff, the fields completely white. They passed farmhouses and barns and herds of sheep, but they were the only people on the road.

John’s breath was a cloud in front of him, hot air escaping through the fabric of his scarf. Behind him, Sherlock walked on, wearing a blue scarf wrapped around his neck and a hat over his dark curls. The boys were both bundled in layers upon layers of clothing, and each of them carried bags of firewood, money, or food. 

A sheep bleated in the distance. There were no birds in sight. Silently, they walked on. 

It was dark when John decided to stop for the night. Sherlock wasn't happy, but he made a fire while John set up the tent - a real tent, this time, not just tarp. After a meager dinner of bread and dried meat, John ushered Sherlock into their shelter, much to the disdain of the prince.

Sherlock had only grown more tense as the day had worn on, and now he lay with his shoulders raised and back stiff. John reached out, his fingertips inches from the prince's spine, before he thought better of prying. The knight clenched his fist, turned away, and closed his eyes.

They lay with their backs to each other, deadly silent in the little space.

Not even an hour later, John was roused by a thin arm wrapping around his waist; a head of riotous curls settled against the back of his neck. John's stomach flipped, and he didn't think it had anything to do with Magic.

The next time John woke, it was morning, and the prince was tearing into a pouch of dried fruit. Sherlock watched disinterestedly as John stretched his good arm and offered the knight an apple slice as soon as he was finished.

"We should reach Brixton by nightfall," John said between chews. "From there, it's a two- or three-day journey to the capital. Sound good?"

Sherlock nodded. "Fine."

"Are you gonna tell me what's the matter today?"

"Nothing's the matter with me."

John shook his head. "No, there is. Something's wrong. I'll get it out of you sooner or later."

"Are we going to leave anytime soon?"

"Right away, Your Highness."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes (as grey as the winter sky) and crawled out of the tent. John smiled after him.

Hours later, the prince asked, "Why can't you use Magic to heal my hand?"

John shrugged. "It just doesn't work that way."

"Doesn't it? Doesn't it do whatever you want it to do, follow your every command?"

"It never listens to me," John replied. "Why?"

"Moriarty's Magic is different. It has no mind of its own."

John winced as Magic buzzed in his ears for the first time since arriving at Lauriston. It seemed to like Sherlock, though, granting John longer and more frequent periods of peace when he was in the prince's company.

"It did whatever he wanted," Sherlock continued. "Why isn't your Magic visible? Moriarty's was… I could see it as he cursed me. Why couldn't I see your Magic when you healed my hand? What else can it do?"

John stared at the prince, his jaw dropped open.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Sherlock demanded. "You have to know. Can you normally see it?"

"No. I just hear it in my head," John said. "I've only seen how it works."

"So you know what it can do?"

"I know what it's done. Is that good enough?"

"It's a start. When will my hand be fully healed?"

"Without Magic, it'd take two months at the most. With Magic, I'm not sure. Hopefully it heals before we get to London. Can't fight Moriarty without working hands, right?"

"Will you try again?" Sherlock asked, examining the cloth tied around his hands. "When we make it to Brixton, will you make it heal me?"

"I can't make it to anything," John said, "but I'll ask."

"And how long have you had it?"

"I can't remember not having it."

"Do you know anyone else-"

"No. I've looked. Nobody else can hear it like I can. They can feel it sometimes, sure, but it's not the same."

Sherlock cocked his head. "What does it sound like? A voice?"

"No. It's like... It's like a swarm of bees."

“A swarm of bees?”

John shrugged. “Yeah. It’s just white noise- Ow! Stop, stop! I didn’t mean it like that. You know it.”

Sherlock’s eyes darted around John. “What’s wrong? What did it do?”

The knight frowned. “You know when you get water up your nose after you jump in a lake or something?”

“No.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Well, it’s like that.”

“All the time?”

“No,  _ that _ was new.”

Magic buzzed around John’s fingers and hands; he clenched his fists and willed it away. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock watching in something close to fascination, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. The knight let out a relieved sigh as Magic dissipated, finally leaving him in peace.

“Then you’ll heal my hand again when we get to Brixton,” Sherlock said, his tone offering no room for questions.

“I’ll try,” John said. “I can’t promise it’ll work.”

The prince only hummed in response, and they walked in silence until the sun began to sink in the sky. Without words, the pair agreed to walk on in the dark.

In the distance, the city of Brixton shone, lanterns and candles placed in the windows of its houses. More than twice the size of little Lauriston, Brixton was a town destined for trade and commerce. John was sure they’d have no trouble finding a room that night; he was honestly looking forward to having a look around the market. Even if his bow had more than a few years of use left, the knight could use more arrows, newer ones, maybe. Perhaps Sherlock needed a weapon, something with which the prince could protect himself. John wouldn’t be around forever.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, pulling John from his thoughts.

“I didn’t say anything,” the knight argued.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying.”

“I… All right,” John replied. He was too tired to do any arguing tonight. “We’ll stop at a pub before we get to sleep.”

“Don’t you think-”

“I know you’re bored out here all day, and you’ve been quite stressed for the last two days, and you want to get to London. I know all that, all right? We have to stop for food and rest. I’m not leaving Brixton until morning.”

Sherlock pouted, but his stomach rumbled.

“Fine,” he said.

“It’ll be a lot easier if you just agree with me.”

“I just did.”

“Sure.”

John, feeling smug, led the way into Brixton.

~*~*~

The innkeepers gave John a knowing look when he bought only a single room. John sputtered some negative response, but Sherlock didn’t give so much as an eye roll. He waited, drumming the free fingers on his left hand on a windowsill.

It had been days since he’d last seen Mycroft.

The prince jumped when John called his name. The knight nodded towards the wooden staircase, and Sherlock followed him.

“Cozy,” he muttered as the door swung open, revealing a sparsely-furnished room with one bed and a wood oven.

“Yeah,” John replied. “It’s actually pretty nice. You know, as far as cheap inns go.”

Sherlock eyed the bed warily. “I’ll take the floor and wake you as soon as I do.”

“Why? It’s not like we can’t share a bed again.”

“Again?”

“Back at Harry’s,” John said. “You- We just ended up in the same bed anyway.”

“You noticed that.”

“The bed was still warm, you idiot.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. _ Oh,” _ John repeated, raising an eyebrow. “So are you getting in or not?”

Sherlock scowled.

The prince lay with his back to John, facing the wall. He was acutely aware of John’s body next to his under the blankets. It was different, somehow, from sharing a tent. That had been out of necessity. This, though… this was because they  _ wanted _ to share a bed. It had to be. John wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise.

“Sherlock?”

“John.”

“We’re not leaving tomorrow until you tell me what’s bothering you. ”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “You have no right to pry into  _ my _ personal-”

John sat up and turned to Sherlock, frowning deeply. The prince followed suit, sitting cross-legged on the bed, his knee pressed against John’s thigh.

“Sherlock, I’m the only friend you’ve got,” the knight said. “Tell me what’s bothering you, and we’ll try to fix it.”

“You left your cane with Mike and Aline.”

Obviously, that had not been what John was expecting. The knight’s jaw dropped open, and his eyebrows furrowed.

“I… That’s- We’re not talking about me right now. Does it have something to do with Sherrinford? You mentioned-”

“Leave him  _ out of this,” _ Sherlock growled. He turned away from John and pulled the blankets up to his ears, his heart beating fast and his chest aching. “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Then help me.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Sherlock-”

“Why will it help?” the prince asked, gazing at John from over his shoulder. “If I tell you, will it not matter anymore? Will you really be able to do anything?”

“Probably not.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“You’ll feel better.”

"I'll feel better," Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, John. What is it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring."

"Ta. Hasn't anyone ever given you advice before?"

"I don't need  _ advice." _

"Yeah, yeah. You need to get to London and kill Moriarty. I get it."

"Do you?"

"Apparently not. But you can't run yourself ragged trying to get to him. We'll beat him, and we'll do it together."

Sherlock sat up again, staring straight ahead. "I'm afraid that's a new concept."

"What, taking a break? Thinking things through? Not being an obsessive, impulsive git?"

The prince smiled softly, shaking his head.

"No," he said. "Well, yes, those things too.  I simply meant doing something together."

John was silent, and Sherlock raised his chin. Maybe he shouldn't have said that. It had always been better for him to keep to himself. People were cold and cruel and callous, everything they accused him of being. Even if John felt like the exception, it didn't mean he was one.

"Well, I'll go easy on you, then. Doing something together means you tell me what's wrong, and I tell you what's wrong, and we figure things out as a pair."

John was definitely the exception; he thought Sherlock was amazing, and he liked the deductions, and he cared so much it almost hurt Sherlock to think about it.

"I don't know where Mycroft is," Sherlock said. "I should be able to figure it out, but I haven't seen him since I left that  _ place." _ Sherlock spat the last word as if it burned his tongue on the way out. "I don't want to be an only child."

"So Mycroft's your brother?"

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, picking at the lint on his blanket.

"He was sleeping, too?"

"What? No, of course not. He's- You told me about a dragon, John, that wanders the forest outside of Lauriston," the prince said. John just looked at him, a puzzled expression on his face. "It's my older brother. Apparently Moriarty turned Mycroft into a dragon after he put me to sleep. Mycroft took me and... here we are."

"Your brother's a dragon," John said.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes."

"Very big? Large teeth and a scar over one eye?"

The prince stared at John in wonder as he described the beast his brother had become.

"Yes, that's him."

"Ah. That could be why he didn't eat me," John said, nodding slowly. "He snuck up on us while you were sleeping. Tried to talk to me in Morse code. I thought I was going crazy."

Lured by John's words, Sherlock leaned in, his eyes wide.

"What did he say?"

"I didn't listen," John admitted. "I thought it wasn't real."

"Oh," Sherlock replied softly, leaning back.

"I'm sorry. If I had known-"

"No matter, John," the prince assured. "He won't be gone for long. He's a bit overprotective, you see."

"A bit," John scoffed. "I guess you could say that. He locked you in a tower."

"Speaking of sleeping," Sherlock said, "you're the one complaining about losing it. You're also the one keeping me up."

John scowled but snuggled into bed anyway, pulling the blankets more tightly around himself. Sherlock followed suit, curling up with his back to John, mere inches of space between them. John's warmth radiated off him in waves, his scent oddly comforting. The prince closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and drifted off to sleep. The last thing Sherlock felt was the weight of John's arm resting on his waist, the knight's chest pressed against his back.

When Sherlock woke up, he was wrapped in his knight's arms, their legs tangled together beneath the covers. At some point during the night, the prince had turned to face the knight, and John's breath ghosted over his nose. Sherlock was tempted to crawl out of bed, but he was trapped between John and the wall. Instead, Sherlock lay in bed, examining (definitely not admiring) John's face. The knight was so open like this, asleep in Sherlock's arms.

John stirred, eyelashes fluttering, and Sherlock closed his eyes and feigned sleep. It wouldn't do to be caught staring.

"Shit," John muttered, slowly removing himself from Sherlock. 

The weight on the bed shifted, and John was gone. Sherlock opened his eyes when he heard John moving across the room; he watched the knight unpack and repack their bags, searching for- ah, the gauze. The prince closed his eyes and steadied his breathing as John walked back towards the bed.

Calloused fingers brushed curls away from Sherlock's forehead. The prince nearly stopped breathing as John's skin made contact with his own. It was soft and sweet and deliberate, and Sherlock struggled to control his ever-increasing heartbeat.

"Idiot," the knight murmured, and it sent a warm, crackly feeling down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock couldn't pretend to sleep for much longer, but if John knew that Sherlock knew what had happened… Well, there went the chances of it ever happening again. Not that Sherlock wanted that.

He had to stop pretending eventually; as soon as John's back was turned, Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes with bandaged hands.

"Morning," John greeted. "How are we feeling today?"

Sherlock just grunted in response.

"Good, good. I figure I'll change your bandages before we get breakfast, and then we'll head off. Sound good?"

The prince nodded. "If you think that's the best course of action."

John narrowed his eyes and shot Sherlock a suspicious look, but the prince just shrugged, holding out his hands. The knight unwrapped Sherlock's hand carefully, examining the stitches he'd done just days ago.

"Can you move this one? Does it hurt?"

Sherlock wiggled his fingers, clenched his fist, and cracked his knuckles.

"No pain," he said.

John smiled. "That's good. Is it all right if I ask Magic to heal your other hand again?"

"If you think it'll work."

Sherlock shivered as warmth washed over the skin of his hand. His bones, already positioned by Magic, seared together, Magic scorching through his palm to the pads of his fingers. The prince bit the inside of his cheek.

"Does it hurt?"

"No," the prince lied. He was under no illusions that John believed him.

"Sure."

After Magic had done all it could - or, more accurately,  _ would _ \- John dragged Sherlock to the pub next door for something to eat. After a quick breakfast of boiled eggs, toast, and tea, the pair set off once again for the capital, feeling more at ease with each other than they had so far.

~*~*~

Magic hates to grant favors;  it does only what needs to be done and nothing more. If Magic got into the habit of granting favors for anyone who asked, it wouldn't be long until it ran itself dry. Then where would its knight be? Where would he be without Magic by his side, showing him the way, encouraging him to stay strong, daring him to do more?

If Magic granted favors, then humans wouldn't be nearly as strong as they are by themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fear that this chapter and maybe some previous ones were kind of boring? I'm trying to make it interesting and exciting, but it's shaping up to be a quiet sort of story. 
> 
> If you can find any mistakes and care enough to tell me, please feel free to do so!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you loved it, hated it, or have any suggestions about what to do with unmentioned characters or plot points from the series.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always!
> 
> (Chapter 8 is, like, 15 pages, so you have that to look forward to in a fortnight) :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd. This chapter is the longest one written so far, so I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Mind the new tags!

The capital of Northumberland was a bustling castle town that surrounded the King's Palace, which was made of gleaming marble and built on cobblestone courtyards. It reminded Sherlock of his own home, though his was smaller, more welcoming, and infinitely more preferable to the monstrous building before him.

Sherlock grew more and more tense as the pair walked on. He felt his shoulders stiffen, his back grow rigid, and his palms start to sweat.

"You all right?" John asked, his hand ghosting over Sherlock's bicep.

The prince nodded.

"Really?"

"I- I remember the King of Northumberland. He was a good friend of my parents; his wife and daughter were always kind to me. His son was not."

"The princess?" John asked, and his voice sounded as strained as Sherlock felt. "You knew her, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "She was… a friend, I would say."

"A friend, yeah," the knight repeated. His eyebrows knit together. "What do you mean, the King's son wasn't kind to you?"

"Is there a third, now?" Sherlock asked, unwilling to answer John's question.

"What did he do to you?"

The prince paused, gazed at the cross knight, and recoiled, genuinely shocked.

"You're angry with him."

"Of course I am," John said. "You told me all about what people would do to you because of your deductions. Did the King's son do something to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Diplomacy is much too important for that, John."

The knight scowled. "I'll make sure this one doesn't say anything to you."

"I _will_ have to speak with him."

"You know what I mean," John replied, his blue eyes flashing.

 _"You_ know you can't threaten the Yao family. You don't stand a chance against their guards. One or two, definitely. A whole army of them?" Sherlock scoffed. "I doubt it, but you're welcome to try."

John shrugged. "We'll see."

The prince let out an exasperated laugh and shook his head, his chest warm.

As the pair approached the castle, Sherlock found himself gravitating towards John. Even at the balls and feasts thrown by his parents, Sherlock had never seen so many people. They weren't just talking; they were shouting and haggling and arguing, all rushing by without a care for anyone but themselves.

"Is it always this busy?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," John admitted. "The first time I was here, it was for deployment, so I don't know much about how everything works around here."

"Oh."

"It's a big town, but I'm sure it's not always like this."

"I suppose I can at least hope they'll calm down soon," Sherlock replied as a heavyset woman knocked into his shoulder. "What can possibly be so important that all these little minds are scrambling to get to it?"

John quirked an eyebrow, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I think the better question is what we're going to tell the King," John said. "You might want to start thinking of something good."

~*~*~

The pair stood in front of the castle, staring down the guards with great determination.

"What do you want with the King?" the taller one asked, his thin eyebrows drawing together.

"We're seeking counsel, like every other honest person in this city," John said.

"Well, you missed it," said the other. "Two weeks ago, it was."

John set his jaw. "I know that, but-"

"I was unable to make the journey two weeks ago," Sherlock cut in.

John felt anger from his chest to his fingertips as the tall guard smiled lecherously at the prince. Magic buzzed fiercely in John's ears as the guard licked his lips.

John was going to kill him.

"I think we can work something out," the man said, very obviously raking his eyes up and down Sherlock's frame.

The prince's face turned a dusty pink as he realized what the guard had suggested.

"Van Coon," hissed the other guard, the fat on his neck jiggling as he shook his head, "you oughtn't talk like that!"

"He's right," Sherlock replied, his face warm but his eyes as cold as ever.

"You really oughtn't," John growled. He ripped his identification badge out of his bag and displayed it long enough for Van Coon to get a quick glance at the symbol there. "Sir John Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, here on behalf of the venerable Major James Sholto."

"Van Coon," the fat guard hissed again, "we should let 'em in, right?"

The tall guard scowled. John raised his chin and crossed his arms, waiting for him to allow them entry. The knight's whole body tensed when Sherlock leaned forward and whispered something in Van Coon's ear.

"Let them in," he insisted. "Let them in. They- Lukis, let them-"

"Yeah, yeah," Lukis agreed, rushing to open the gates. "Tell the inner guard that- all that business about Major Sholto. They'll let you in, Sir Watson. Sorry for all the trouble."

John smiled tightly as they passed into the castle's private courtyard, made of primarily cobblestone but decorated with dozens of snow-covered trees. Sherlock said nothing as they approached the second set of guards, so John did the talking.

"Sir John Watson," he explained, "on behalf of Major James Sholto. We've business with the King."

"And who's he?"

"Prince William of London," Sherlock supplied.

John shot him an incredulous look. They weren't going to be discreet, then. The guard's eyes widened, and he shook his head.

"No."

"Oh, yes."

"Oh my God."

"Not quite."

"The King will see you shortly," the guard said. "Allow me to escort you to the counsel room, Your Highness, Sir Watson."

Sherlock turned to John with a smirk, but the knight couldn't find it in himself to smile back. The triumph on Sherlock's face vanished, and his mouth became a hard line.

It was all fine, John reasoned. Sherlock could proposition anyone he liked. Maybe then John could get a night's rest without the prince latching onto him like a starving parasite.

John startled as the heavy doors to the counsel room slammed shut, leaving the pair of them in silence. Sherlock said nothing as John admired the room in all its grandeur. The walls were high and the ceiling domed, accented with gold and rubies. A crystal chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, the jewels sparkling with the light streaming in from the tall windows the side wall. Golden silk drapes hung elegantly from each window, each embroidered with swirling silver and bronze designs. The room was void of furniture save for the ornate thrones at the very end, six in total.

John thought of his dirty clothes and skin, his very presence smearing the sight of such a clean and elegant room, and an itch crawled up his arms and down his back.

“I haven’t been here in ages.”

The knight considered Sherlock, a prince in commoner’s clothes, and looked away in shame. The prince belonged in a place like this, surrounded by luxury John had never known.

“Stop thinking,” Sherlock snapped, his dark brows drawn together.

“I’ll think all I want.”

Something in his voice must have worried the prince, for Sherlock called his name just as the doors banged open.

Both John and Sherlock turned to meet the king as he entered the room, followed by three women. The first, obviously the Queen, wore rubies and diamonds in her short, dark hair; her lips were painted red like blood, and her eyes the color of the many golden rings adorning her thin, elegant fingers. The other two women were in their seventies, but no less regal for the fact; it was obvious that they had been beautiful in their youth. They clung to each other as they walked, arm-in-arm and giggling quietly. The King himself was younger than his wife but dressed even more elaborately than she. He wore gem-encrusted leather boots, gold-trim breeches, and swaths of fine silk draped over his pristine white tunic. He wore gold on his fingers, around his neck, and even in his ears.

John had never seen so many reminders of royalty. He imagined Sherlock dressed to the nines - silver jewelry dangling from his neck, wrapped around his fingers, sitting on those inky dark curls in a delicate halo of a crown - and found that he didn’t like _that_ prince. It was a handsome picture, but he rather preferred Sherlock as he was now (like him), and wasn’t that _selfish_ of him?

John glanced at the prince only to find him focused entirely on the pair of women settling in on the thrones provided for them.

Tearing his eyes away from Sherlock, John bowed to the King and Queen.

"Your Highness," he greeted, "we can't thank you enough for granting us counsel on such short notice. And to you, Your Highness the Queen and the Ladies Yao."

The King opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock cut him off.

"Soo Lin?" the prince asked quietly.

The woman froze, her cloudy eyes darting around the room.

"Sherlock?" she whispered.

John watched in awe as Lady Sarah guided her wife to stand before Sherlock. The prince was smiling widely, his eyes crinkled and his face open. It was a beautiful smile, and John’s heart hurt to look at it.

“Sherlock?” the woman asked again.

“Yes,” the prince said. “Hello, Soo Lin.”

Fat teardrops fell from her face as Lady Soo Lin asked, her hands outstretched, “Can I see you? I need to see you.”

“Yes.”

Shaking fingers traced the prince’s face, from the sharp angles of his cheekbones to the strong slope of his nose to the delicate dip of his cupid’s bow.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Soo Lin breathed, her wrinkled face brightening. “You’re _alive.”_

“Yes.”

“Is that all you can say?”

“You know me better than that,” Sherlock replied.

Soo Lin laughed and drew Sherlock into her arms. “I missed you, Sherlock.”

“And I you, Lin.”

“And who is this?” asked the other woman, staring intently at John.

Sherlock turned to the knight as if just realizing he was still there.

“Sir John Watson,” the prince said. “He’s helping me get to London.”

“It’s an honor, Lady Yao,” John said, bowing his head.

“Oh, he’s sweet, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink.

John turned to the King and Queen; he felt the heat of the Queen’s gaze on him as he spoke.

“Your Highness,” he said, “we come to request support against King Moriarty. With the prince’s awakening, we wish to reclaim London from him and restore it to the Holmes family.”

The King narrowed his eyes. “Why would-”

“Zhi Zhu,” Soo Lin snapped, “of course we will help them.”

“We can’t start a war with London just because one knight from- Where are you from?”

John set his jaw. “Lauriston, Your Highness.”

“Lauriston!” cried the King, turning to Soo Lin. “You want to declare war with _London_ because a knight from _Lauriston_ asks it? We’re already at war with Afghanistan.”

“My father will be more than willing to send his army to Afghanistan if you send yours to London,” Sherlock replied. “We would be in your debt.”

“This is ridiculous,” the King insisted. He turned to his aunt. “These men want us to lead our own people to the slaughter.”

“Are you not already leading them to Afghanistan?” Soo Lin asked innocently.

The King glowered at the old woman, his lips twisting into a sneer.

“Zhi Zhu,” Sarah snapped, “I suggest we consider the knight’s proposal and reconvene in the morning, after everyone’s had the night to think it over.”

The King nodded. “Sir Watson, make your case.”

John glanced towards Sherlock, whose face gave away no emotion. His arm was linked with Soo Lin’s, the woman gripping his hand tightly. The prince caught his eye and nodded.

“Your Highness, surely you have heard the stories of London,” John said. “You have heard of the witch Moriarty and the sleeping prince. He stands before you now. He must save his kingdom and his family, and he can’t do that without your help. We- _He_ cannot fight Moriarty alone.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off with a sharp look.

The King considered them for a few moments before speaking.

“You say that your father will aid in the war with Afghanistan,” he said, his eyes trained on Sherlock, “but can you guarantee our success in challenging Moriarty?”

John grimaced. “No-”

“Yes,” Sherlock insisted. “As well as I can guarantee that your guards are stealing from you and-”

“Who?” the Queen demanded, speaking for the first time since she’d entered the room.

Sherlock cocked his head. “Van Coon. I could tell as soon as I saw him. I take it you’re his superior officer.”

“General Shan,” the Queen confirmed, “head of all castle guards like my mother and her father before me. How can you be sure he is stealing from us?”

The prince shrugged. “His armor was scratched.”

Soo Lin smiled proudly at the King and Queen, who, it seemed, didn’t quite know what to say.

“That’s brilliant,” John exclaimed, hating himself for breaking the silence. “Is that what you told him earlier?”

Sherlock fixed John with a puzzled look. “What else would I have to tell him?”

Some of the knots in John’s stomach unraveled, and he shook his head in disbelief.

“Of course, I said I wouldn’t tell the King and Queen, so I can’t imagine he’ll be too happy with me after he’s caught.”

John couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face. Sherlock’s eyes softened for just a moment - or maybe the knight was just imagining it.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” said the Queen.

“Prince William,” Soo Lin corrected. She turned to John and Sherlock, a bright smile on her face. “We’ll have Kitty and Jeanette show you to your rooms, dear. If you’ll be needing two, that is.”

John’s mind turned to nights spent wrapped in Sherlock’s warm embrace, the prince’s hot breath on the back of his neck or on his collarbone, their legs tangled together under layers of blankets.

“Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms,” he said, shame creeping up on him like the first frost of winter. He swallowed hard as he watched Sherlock’s shoulders tense; he longed to run his hands over the prince’s stiff muscles, soothing away the tension he put there.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Two bedrooms.”

Soo Lin called in her servants, somber and dressed in uniform grey, and ordered them to escort John and Sherlock to their rooms.

“Treat them as you treat me,” Soo Lin said.

John was nearly sick, his stomach bubbling as two girls his age - well-dressed, well-groomed, and well-fed - treated him like a prince and led him to his room, the real prince following not far behind.

~*~*~

Sherlock slammed the door in Kitty’s face as soon as he’d stepped two feet inside his room. He sighed, threw himself on the bed, and lay there for what seemed like hours. He ran his fingertips over the soft silk sheets, burying his head in a luxurious feather pillow. A servant wandered in every now and then to stoke the fire, but Sherlock remained motionless on the bed until Kitty returned, holding a pitcher and a basket of soap.

“Your bath, Your Highness.”

“I didn’t order a bath.”

“No, Your Highness. The Lady Soo Lin ordered it.”

Sherlock groaned as Kitty drew the bath water, sprinkling dried flower petals in it as she did.

Sherlock thought of John; the knight was too proud to let another person draw his bath but too kind to consider telling off a servant doing their job. He would try to compromise - just like he had when he and Sherlock shared a bed in Brixton. Absently, Sherlock wondered if John would compromise and bathe _with_ his servant.

Even as the image sent envy coursing through his veins, Sherlock’s face and neck burned as he pictured droplets of water trickling down John’s small, strong body, curving around the taut muscles of his shoulders, clinging to his collarbone and the veins in his neck. The prince imagined the rough scrape of John’s cinnamon stubble against his lips, John’s calloused hands cupping his jaw (and _other_ things), John’s hot tongue forcing his mouth open and-

“Your Highness,” Kitty interrupted, “the bath.”

Lust transformed quickly into embarrassment as the prince remembered that John had already seen him mostly naked; there really was no comparing Sherlock’s pale, scrawny little body with John’s.

“Get out,” Sherlock hissed, twisting to hide the brightness of his face. “I can do it myself. Get _out!”_

The prince bathed for the first time in a week, scrubbing his skin until he was pink all over. He relaxed in the tub for half an hour before climbing out, drying himself, and curling up in bed under the covers. The prince tossed and turned under the sheets, searching for warmth and finding nothing. He was alone with his thoughts, the darkness offering him no comfort. Not wanting to subject himself to more nightmares, Sherlock stayed awake for hours, his mind racing with the possibilities of the next day.

Zhi Zhu would help Sherlock defeat Moriarty. Tomorrow they would strategize, make a definitive plan, and gain the trust of their new allies. Carriages and wagons full of supplies would pour into London, Northumberland's army following close behind, weapons at the ready. Sherlock would see his parents again, and Mycroft - and he'd force Moriarty to change them back. The witch would change them back, and then Sherlock would kill him for what he did to Sherrinford, slowly and painfully.

With that thought in his mind, Sherlock drifted off to sleep, curled on his side and clutching a pillow to his chest.

Soo Lin and Sarah met Sherlock for breakfast in the morning, which left the prince little time to dwell on John _or_ his brothers.

"Our son is in Piccadilly with his wife," Sarah said, pushing an olive past her rose-painted lips. "I wish he could have been here to meet you, Sherlock. I think you would've liked him."

“Your son?”

A soft smile crept onto Soo Lin’s wrinkled face.

“Yes,” she said softly, “Min Hai and his wife Millie have a daughter and two sons. I would have loved for you to meet them. They’re around your age.”

“Technically, I'm seventy-four.”

Soo Lin rolled her eyes. “Dear, the last fifty or so years don’t count.”

Sarah agreed, nodding sagely. “She’s right. Brilliant, she is.”

Blushing, Soo Lin took Sarah’s hand in her own. “My wife is too kind to me.”

“Your wife tells the truth,” Sarah argued. “You’re extraordinary, love.”

“Is your young man like this too?” Soo Lin asked abruptly, looking expectantly at the air above Sherlock’s shoulder.

“My- What?”

“Sir Watson,” Sarah clarified. “Isn’t he- Oh, love, he’s not-”

“Sherlock, what do you mean? Of course he’s yours. He came here with you, didn’t he?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s only here because he’s kind. He wouldn’t… John doesn’t like men.”

Soo Lin frowned deeply. “That’s not possible.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock replied. “You should have seen him in Brixton. He was chatting up every girl in the tavern, and it was only breakfast.”

“That can’t be right,” Sarah said. “The way he looks at you…”

“It’s hardly important,” the prince claimed. “I need to focus on Moriarty, anyway, not some invalided knight from run-down _Lauriston.”_

Sarah frowned. “Oh, Sherlock, you don’t believe that.”

“It doesn’t matter. Caring is, at its very best, a disadvantage.”

“‘You’ve said that ever since Redbeard died.”

“For good reason. And it’s true, isn’t it?”

Soo Lin shook her head. “No. Everyone gets hurt sometime or another. It’s just part of living.”

“One that can be avoided,” Sherlock said. “If you don’t care about others, they can’t hurt you.”

“Don’t you care about me?” Soo Lin asked.

Sherlock knit his eyebrows together. “Of course I do.”

“Do I hurt you? Would I?”

“Never intentionally.”

“The trick is finding people who care about you as much as you care about them,” Sarah commented. “Who don’t want to hurt you.”

“When you’re old, you’ll understand,” Soo Lin added. “Death is very natural, and it may hurt, but it happens. That’s no excuse for isolation.” She reached into a pocket sewn into the left side of her dress and scowled. “Oh! Sarah, love, I left my handkerchief in our room. It has to be where you usually put them at night. Kitty won’t know where it is.”

“I suppose you want me to get it, then,” Sarah said. “I might be younger than you, love, but I’m just as old.”

Soo Lin smiled as her wife left the room, accompanied by the servant ever-present at Sherlock’s door.

“I could have-”

“No,” the woman said, “you will listen to me now.”

Sherlock frowned, and Soo Lin continued, her voice stern and her face serious.

“Beware Shan. She won my nephew’s heart and makes him happier than I’ve seen him since before his father’s death, but she has a wicked heart and a sharp tongue. Do not trust her quickly. I have talked to my nephew about her loyalty, but he will hear no word of it. You will listen to me.”

The prince blinked a few times before replying, “She fancies herself better than you.”

Soo Lin laughed. “I’m sure she does. How long have you been holding that in?”

“Since I first saw her. Does Zhi Zhu know about the other men?”

“He does not know because he does not wish to see it.”

Sherlock sighed. “Why is adultery so common in our line of work?”

“The lust for power and the power of lust,” Soo Lin offered, shrugging her dainty shoulders. “It is hard to combat both when no one will refuse.”

“But you were never tempted. Neither was Sarah. What makes you two different from the rest?”

A soft smile played at Soo Lin’s mouth.

“We’re the lucky ones. You’re lucky too, Sherlock. Believe me.”

The prince shook his head. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Last time I checked, you didn’t believe in Magic, either.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest when the door creaked open. Sarah and Kitty entered the room, their hands empty.

“You forgetful old hag,” Sarah teased, no trace of unkindness in her voice, “is it in your other pocket?”

Soo Lin shot a small smile to Sherlock before pulling a gold-trimmed handkerchief from her right pocket.

“You’re right, love, absolutely right.”

“For someone so brilliant,” Sarah chuckled, “you’re awfully daft sometimes.”

Should someone ask Sherlock if he couldn’t help but smile as Sarah dropped a kiss on Soo Lin’s forehead, he would lie and say he didn’t believe in true love. If they assumed he longed for that affection in his own life, he would do the same.

~*~*~

John was welcome to the strategy room, but he quickly realized his opinions didn’t carry the same weight as Shan’s or Sherlock’s. He supposed it was for good reason, but he was willing to bet his battlefield experience matched Sherlock’s and Shan’s combined.

“Direct attack won’t work,” John said, frowning at the model in front of him. “You’re leaving our flanks open to his forces.”

“What forces?” Shan demanded.

“He’s got the whole town under his control,” John said. “The whole kingdom. You think just marching in is going to do anything other than get us killed?”

The King turned red, and John could’ve kicked himself for being so stupid.

“Watch how you speak to your Queen,” he growled.

John set his jaw. “Yes, Your Highness. My apologies.”

If he didn’t sound very sincere, John couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Direct attack and strong offense has been our battle tactic for years,” Shan explained. “I can’t imagine what you’d want us to do about it. Our men are trained for offense over defense or stealth.”

“With all due respect, Your Highness, perhaps that’s why we’re losing the war with Afghanistan.”

“How _dare-”_

“Oh, just listen to him,” Sherlock muttered, throwing a nasty look at Shan. “He’s right. You’re all basically hopeless. You wouldn’t need London’s troops otherwise.”

Both Shan and the King looked about ready to explode, and John had to hide his smile.

“Right. So, we’ll split your troops into three sections. One infiltrates the kingdom from left, right, and center, and-”

“Four sections, and we’ll be able to station a wall of soldiers on the border of London and Northumberland,” Shan suggested. “It’ll keep him inside London and our kingdom safe.”

John nodded, scratching his newly-shaved chin. “Could work,” he muttered to himself. “If a quarter of your troops are on the border and a quarter come at him from the left, right, and center each, we should be able to overtake him. Still, you can’t just march in.”

“Then what do you suggest?” the King asked, clearly irritated.

“Well,” John began, taking a deep breath, “since you asked. Some sort of distraction to attract the attention of the Londoners not under Moriarty’s spell could gain us more support; we outfit those who want to fight with weapons and help get the others to safety - children and the elderly, you know.”

“Say that distraction comes from the center,” Shan interrupted. “The left and right flanks then move in, heading towards the castle from their positions in the field.”

“Pretty much,” John replied. “Sh- Prince William and I will scout ahead and get into the castle somehow - distract Moriarty, disarm him if we can.”

“Why _you?”_

John froze, the King’s words stunning him into silence. He didn’t really have an answer.

“In fact, why either of you?” the King demanded. “Our troops can more than handle Moriarty, _and_ they have more field experience than either of you. What are you, sixteen?”

The prince frowned softly. “I’m seventy-four.”

“Only the ones you were awake for count,” Shan replied, smiling sweetly.

Sherlock only glared. “And John has more experience than you think.”

“The prince grew up in that castle. He knows its layout and hiding places better than anyone else,” John reasoned. “Prince William is the best person for the job, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting him go in there alone.”

“He would be accompanied by the finest knights in our army,” the King assured. “You’ve no need to follow him into the castle like a trained dog.”

John smiled. “Let me clarify: I’ll be damned if I’m letting him go in there without me.”

“Are you suggesting a foot soldier could protect him better than a trained royal knight?” the King asked, a mocking smile playing at his lips.

“I don’t need _protecting,”_ the prince spat, staring at John through narrowed eyes, daring the knight to challenge him.

John grit his teeth. “While I’m certainly not royal, I _am_ a fully trained knight,” he said, “and I have served my kingdom proudly for upwards of four years. The prince is right. He doesn’t _need_ protecting. But he and I are going in there together.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I think it’s unwise,” the King claimed. “You obviously have an unhealthy, one-sided emotional connection to a superior that should never have been allowed to grow in the first place. Frankly, I’m concerned for his safety around you.”

John’s face burned, and white-hot shame flooded his body at the thought of being so transparent with his feelings. Of course he cared for the prince; he was brilliant and clever and sweet (though he would skin John alive if he ever knew the knight thought he was _sweet)_ , and John rather liked spending time with him and waking up in his arms.

The King’s words may have hurt more since John already believed them.

Then, the anger. Oh, the _anger,_ burning through his veins like fire, Magic buzzing incessantly in his ears (or maybe it was just rushing blood), his fists clenching and his jaw setting.

He turned to Sherlock, who looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. John’s heart ached to look at his bloodshot eyes and gaunt-looking face.

“Sherlock, I would _never_ do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?”

The prince gazed up at John with an unreadable look on his face before turning his scrutinizing eyes towards the King himself.

“Inaccurate. You are, in fact, describing your relationship with your wife,” Sherlock said bluntly, and John had to retrace the conversation a few steps. “Subconsciously, maybe, but no less truthful for the fact.”

The King and Queen went pale, their eyes wide and mouths open. Sherlock stood, his chair scraping the marble floor with a terrible sound, and stormed out of the room, the huge double doors banging shut behind him.

Without even a glance towards the royal couple still sitting at the table in shock, John rushed after his prince.

“Sherlock!” he called, jogging down the hallway.

The prince didn’t answer. He strode down the marble hallway like a man hellbent on revenge (which, in a way, he was) leaving John to catch up.

“Sherlock, wait a minute!”

John finally caught up to the prince and grabbed his arm. Sherlock spun around at the contact and bared his teeth like a threatened animal.

“What is it?” the prince demanded, pulling away from John’s touch. “Was I wrong to tell them? They both know. They should be forced to acknowledge it, don’t you think?”

“I wanted to make sure you knew I meant what I said,” the knight told him, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. He- The King said… I just wouldn’t, all right?”

The tension in Sherlock’s lithe body melted away, and his eyes softened minutely.

“I know, John,” the prince replied, smiling faintly.

“Good.”

They stood there, in the middle of the marble hallway, staring at each other, daring the other to speak. John couldn’t help but take in Sherlock’s change in wardrobe. Instead of Mike’s old clothes, Sherlock wore a polished blue vest and tight black trousers that really left nothing to the imagination. His face was smooth, and his curls were clean and meticulously fluffed. He looked at home here in the castle, and once again John felt shame creep up on him for doing no more than be himself.

“Dinner?” the prince asked, his eyes bright.

John grinned, ignoring the block in his stomach. “Starving.”

~*~*~

Dinner with John set everything right.

“Where did you run off to today?” John had asked, his elbows on the table (just like Mummy had always insisted Sherlock _never ever do)_. “I tried to find you, but I didn’t want to accidentally trespass and discover kingdom secrets or something. And everything’s so posh here. I’m seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray.”

Sherlock had blushed and explained that he’d spent most of the day in the library, catching up on some of the things he’d missed.

“Northumberland and Piccadilly were at war fifteen years ago. Piccadilly, John! Did you know that?”

“Funnily enough, I did.”

“Ah, yes. Your father died in that war.”

John had shaken his head. “My mother.”

“Oh, yes. That happened in the last fifty years.”

“Yes, it did,” John had laughed. “About time, too.”

“Yes,” Sherlock had agreed, transfixed by John’s blinding smile. “About time.”

The prince discovered that John had an intense love for strawberries (which grew natively in London and Northumberland but had been imported from somewhere in the Americas due to the winter weather). He’d used to pick them in the summer with his sister and eat until his belly was full and his face and fingers were stained red and sticky with strawberry juice.

The knight said this all while licking his fingers clean, and Sherlock had wanted to die. John was interesting and interest _ed,_ and Sherlock had never enjoyed someone’s company more.

Dinner with John set everything right, but that didn’t stop the nightmares from coming.

He stood in the ballroom alone, his hair perfectly curled, his clothes pressed and cleaned. The hall was empty, marble floors gleaming as light streamed in from open windows. The prince swallowed hard as a voice called out to him.

“Where are you? Help me!”

“Ford?” the prince breathed, his eyes darting around the empty ballroom. “Sherrinford!”

“Sherlock, where are you? Please help me.”

“I’m here,” Sherlock called, searching for his brother behind every curtain, corner, and column he could manage. “Where are you?”

“Sherlock, please help!” the voice cried, becoming more frantic with each outburst.

“Ford!” the prince yelled, over and over and over until his voice was hoarse and his throat was sore. _“Ford!_ I’m here!”

The large doors at the end of the hall rattled and banged as someone on the other side beat their tiny fists against it.

“Sherlock! Sherlock, please!”

“I’m trying! I’m trying to get to you!”

The prince tried the doors, pulling with all his might, bracing one foot against the wall, grunting with the effort. The voice on the other side of the doors went silent, and Sherlock screamed, banging his own fists against it in anger.

_“Sherrinford!”_

“I found you, Sherlock!”

The prince whipped around to face the voice and recoiled at what he saw there, his back slamming against the heavy wooden doors.

Moriarty stood in front of him, a manic smile on his face and a familiar, unsettling glint in his eye.

“I found you, Sherlock,” he repeated, Sherrinford’s sweet little voice ringing in Sherlock’s ears. “I found you. I found you-”

“No,” the prince whispered as hot tears dripped down his face.

“I found you!”

“No, no, no, no…”

Moriarty’s wicked grin twisted into a snarl, and he screamed one more time, _“I FOUND YOU!”_ before Sherlock jolted awake in bed, sweat drenching his sheets and gluing his hair to his forehead.

He stumbled out of bed wiped his face with a cloth left by his wash basin. Once his face and hair were mostly dry, the prince raised his head to gaze in the mirror and let out a wordless scream.

~*~*~

John’s nightmare had awakened him nearly an hour ago; presently, he sat at the small dining table in his room, staring at the door that connected his room to Sherlock’s. He hadn’t opened it yet, but he could. There was nothing stopping him from walking into Sherlock’s room, asking if they could share a bed, and getting a good night’s sleep for once. (Nothing but his pride, anyway.)

Instead, John had set himself up with a roll of parchment, a quill and ink, and a semicircle of half-used candles. He tore his eyes away from the door and began to write a letter to his sister. He’d been lucky so far, surviving Afghanistan and the trek to St. Bart’s Tower and his run-in with the King, and he wasn’t sure he’d survive the attack on London. Even if Harry made him angry and annoyed him with her drinking and hated his guts, John didn’t want their relationship to end on bad terms.

He’d gotten about halfway through his apology for being a shit brother when there was a soft knock on the door to the hallway. His heartbeat quickened, and his thoughts turned to Sherlock. It made sense, sort of, that Sherlock would want to make sure John was awake before barging in, but the person who walked in was not Sherlock at all.

“Your Highness,” John greeted, standing abruptly to meet the Queen. He was suddenly very aware of his unflattering bedclothes and stubbly jaw.

“Hello, Sir Watson,” she replied, her voice low and charged as she closed the door behind her. “I didn’t expect you to be awake.”

“I didn’t expect company,” John returned. “Can I help you with something?”

The Queen strode confidently forward, and John took a measured step back. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as Shan’s eyes swept greedily over his body. He licked his lips (only a nervous tick), and her eyes darkened.

_Oh, God. What did Sherlock say about the string of lovers?_

“I just wanted to make sure that what you heard today… Well, I wanted to make sure it was all clear to you. Your friend-”

“Prince William.”

Shan’s jaw clenched. “Yes. Prince William accused me - _me!_ \- of carrying on behind my husband’s back. How could he say such…” She bit her lip, painted blood red even though she wore only her thin dressing gown and slip. “Oh, such _terrible_ things, John?”

The knight swallowed hard. “He’s usually right.”

“How can you know?” Shan asked innocently, her eyes wide and lips pouting. She stepped towards him again, unrelenting, until John’s back was against the wall. “Don’t you ever wonder if he’s lying to you?”

“Never,” John replied, gently pushing Shan away from him. She pouted, her heated gaze contradicting her innocent demeanor. “Was there something you wanted from me, Your Highness?”

 _Something that doesn’t include jumping my bones,_ John prayed.

“Would it be so unforgivable, John?” Shan inquired, seemingly changing tactics. “Would it be so monstrous of me to seek love wherever I can find it?”

“You won’t find it here,” John blurted, and he bit his tongue.

_You just told the Queen to fuck off, you moron! She could have you killed. She could have the whole damn town of Lauriston razed to the ground!_

The Queen smiled devilishly and settled on John’s bed, patting the space next to her. John stood still in the center of the room, knowing very well that if he asked for help, the Queen would turn it on him.

“Have you any further thoughts about our battle plans?” Shan asked abruptly. John opened his mouth to reply, but Shan just laughed. “Oh, pet, you don’t have to answer that! It’d be better if you didn’t, actually. That way I can say I was just here to ask you about war, like a good little host, when you _grabbed_ me!” She gasped, raising a hand to her chest. “Oh, and I tried so hard to stop you, but you were just so _strong_ , a _soldier,_ and you pinned me down, and how was I supposed to fight back?”

John’s stomach twisted, and his mouth dropped open.

“You can’t.”

“Oh, I can!” Shan replied cheerily, her dressing gown falling off one shoulder. “I will have you, John.”

The knight shook his head. “They’ll kill me.”

“Yes, I should think so,” the Queen chirped, discarding her dressing gown at the foot of John’s bed. She ran her fingers down her sides and over her stomach. “But I won’t tell anyone if you do what I want.”

John shook his head, horrified at the dryness of his mouth, when a gut-wrenching scream sounded from the prince’s room, followed by desperate shouting.

“John! John, help me!”

“Sherlock!”

Then, exactly four things happened at once. The first was a magpie’s call ringing in John’s ears, and he noticed the familiar bird sitting intently on his windowsill, fat snowflakes drifting to the ground behind it. The second was Shan’s decision to leap off the bed, throw herself at John, startle him into throwing his arms around her waist to balance them both, and begin showering John’s cheeks and neck with ruby red kisses. The third was Sherlock nearly falling into the room, tears dripping down his face, his eyes wide and scared and hurt and embarrassed and _oh, God._

The fourth - and by far the worst - thing to happen in that cursed second was John’s sudden realization that he was falling head over heels in love with Sherlock Holmes.

~*~*~

Magic loves deeply and without restraint. The only problem is that there is nothing like Magic on Earth. So Magic settles for loving humanity, and loves it as it is - greedy and generous, conniving and sweet, guilt and innocent, deceitful and honest, completely imperfect and utterly flawless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POVs were kind of weird. I hope it didn't mess up the flow of the chapter.
> 
> I'm kind of behind schedule! I was supposed to finish chapter nine today but ya know. Things happen. I'll continue posting regularly though. No more delays.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, hated it, or have any suggestions. I love to hear what people think about my writing. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd or edited in any way. I've read it so many times I'm numb. Sorry for any mistakes or inconsistencies. Feel free to correct me if there's any glaring mistake you can't stand.
> 
> So there's a bit of violence in this chapter. Tread with care maybe? I don't think it's too bad, but then again I wrote it.

Sherlock had thought, before he ran to John’s room, that the worst thing he would see that night was Molly’s big brown eyes blinking owlishly at him from inside his mirror. He had thought wrong.

Sherlock’s heart stopped as he took in the scene before him.

There was John, his arms wrapped around the Queen and an angry expression on his face (caused by Sherlock barging in on them, of course). Shan gripped John’s muscled arms tightly, her soft curves matching John’s sturdy frame perfectly. The prince breathed heavily, his heart hammering in his chest even as John pushed Shan away from him.

“Oh, God.”

John started forward, reaching for the prince. 

“Sherlock, it’s not what you-”

“I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked or-” Sherlock swallowed and backed away, stumbling when his back hit the doorframe. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Sherlock,” the knight insisted, “this is  _ not _ what you think. I don’t-”

“John,” Shan purred, pressing her body against the knight’s, “come to bed.”

Frantically wiping the tears from his cheeks, Sherlock apologized again and fled the room, slamming the door behind him.

John could do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted. He wasn’t Sherlock’s by any means, and Sherlock shouldn’t have a hard time accepting that. He’d only known John for three weeks (although Shan had known him for two days), and while John might be  _ his _ exception, that didn’t mean he was John’s. Maybe Sherlock had thought, after their dinner… Well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought now that he knew he was wrong, did it?

Sherlock caught sight of the mirror across from him, and a new surge of panic swept over him as a brown skirt flashed across the surface of the glass. He tugged roughly at his hair, his chest tight, his eyes darting rapidly around his room.

_ I found you I found you I found you _

Sherlock was drowning, caught up in his own fear, and he sank to his knees in the middle of his room, breathing erratically and tearing at his hair with his free hand.

Suddenly, there were voices, but they were muffled as if Sherlock was underwater, and a blurry, concerned face appeared before him.

“Sherlock,” called John, and he sounded a million miles away and too close all at once. “Sherlock, give me your hands. Please, give me your hands.”

“She’s here,” Sherlock hissed, tugging more insistently at his hair. “She’s here she’s here she’s-”

“Sherlock, can you hear me? I need to-” Another voice interrupted him, and John yelled, “Does he  _ look _ like he’s in any state to be left alone?”

The prince groaned and curled in on himself.

John swore. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. Can you hear me?”

“She’s here, John,” Sherlock repeated as calloused hands removed his fingers from his curls.

“Who is?” John asked, cradling Sherlock’s hands in his own. The gentleness of John’s touch was nothing like the steely anger in his voice. “Who’s got you so upset?”

“Molly,” Sherlock whispered.

John’s head whipped around as if he was searching for a fourth person, and Sherlock wanted to crawl into his arms and sleep for years.

“Right,” the knight said slowly. “We’re gonna try to calm down, all right?”

“No, we can’t, we have to go!” Sherlock cried, his nails digging into John’s skin as the blond pulled him to his feet. “We have to go  _ now. _ It’s not safe.”

“We’ll go,” John agreed, “as soon as we’re calmed down. Wouldn’t want to forget anything. Take a couple deep breaths for me. That’s good. That’s perfect, Sherlock.”

At that point, John could ask him to move a mountain, and Sherlock would do it.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock finally managed, tearing his hands away from John’s. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” John asked. Sherlock turned away, not wanting to see the pity in the blond’s eyes. “Sherlock? Your pulse was-”

“Sir Watson,” the Queen barked, and Sherlock absently wondered why she was still there.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Better than listening to you?’” Shan laughed. “Yes, I do, but  _ you’re _ the one  _ keeping him here.” _

“Go,” John said, his voice hard. “Go tell them whatever you want about me. We’ll be gone soon anyway.”

Sherlock stilled at that, looking from the Queen to his knight with narrowed eyes. It dawned on him, then, that he had theorized without all the facts (just as he had always tried to avoid doing). He watched disinterestedly as Shan bared her teeth at him before storming out of the room. When John gripped his shoulders, Sherlock jumped.

“Sherlock?” the blond asked. “Who’s Molly?”

“The girl in the mirror,” Sherlock said. “She was with me in the tower. She works for Moriarty. She knows we’re here. She’ll tell him.”

John caught Sherlock’s hands before he could bury them in his hair again.

“That’s all right,” John said. “He knew we were coming after him anyway, didn’t he? He knows where we are now, but we’ll be long gone by the time he gets here.”

“His Magic,” Sherlock reminded, shaking his head. “It’s powerful. He can do whatever he wants.”

“We’ll deal with it. Breathe, all right?”

The prince shook his head and pushed John away.

“You don’t believe me.”

“No, I- I do,” John insisted.

“You don’t!” the prince shouted. “Trust me, John. I haven’t gone crazy! Not yet.”

“I’m not saying that, Sherlock-”

“That’s what you think!”

“Sherlock!”

“I knew it. I knew I was alone. I knew it, knew it, knew it.  _ God!” _

The prince backed away from John, his heart racing.

“Can you calm him down?” John asked, seemingly to no one, and suddenly there was a warm, prickly feeling in Sherlock’s chest. It spread from his chest all the way down to his fingers, and he sank to his knees. He heard John shout, “That’s too much!” before everything went black.

~*~*~

John rushed to Sherlock’s side, cradling the prince’s head in his lap as he took his pulse. It was strong and regular, and John sighed in relief. The prince snored softly, his eyes darting around underneath his eyelids.

“What were you thinking?” John spat, to himself or to Magic he didn’t know.

“I was wondering if he would wake up again,” a voice behind him said.

John whipped around only to face an emotionless girl he’d never met standing in the middle of the prince’s room.

“Who are you?” he demanded, wishing for the dagger he knew was under his pillow. Instead, the knight raised his fists. “How did you get in here?”

The girl looked sad, then, her big brown eyes falling to the floor and her mouth twisting into a frown.

“You should listen to him,” she said softly. “He’s right. I have to tell him you’re here.”

“Why?”

The girl shrugged. “He has my mirror.”

“He what?”

“The one that I’m trapped in,” she clarified, looking at John as if he were stupid. “Don’t be silly. You can kill me, John Watson, but I’d only wake up in my mirror and come after you again.”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know more than you think. He’s been following you two the whole time,” the girl said. “Ever since you left Lauriston, John.”

The knight narrowed his eyes. “And why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged again. “I have to tell him what I see. I don’t have to tell him what I say.”

“Doesn’t he figure it out?”

The girl’s face was oddly blank as she answered, “Sometimes. Do you think he’s angry with me? The prince.”

John’s mouth fell open. “What? I- I don’t… He seemed plenty frightened of you.”

“He’s frightened of who owns me,” the girl replied matter-of-factly. “The man who killed his brother.”

“The dragon?”

The girl’s glassy eyes met John’s. “The other one.”

“You- You need to get out. Get out of here,” John insisted. “How do I keep you from coming back here?”

“Will the prince wake soon?”

“Molly, is it?” John asked, and the girl nodded. “All right, Molly. Sherlock and I are going to help you, but you need to get away from here for now.”

“Will he wake soon, Sir Watson?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “Now leave. Don’t make me ask Magic to-”

“Don’t!” the girl cried, suddenly overcome with emotion. “Don’t use your Magic on me.  _ Please _ don’t let it touch me. Please!”

“Step back into your mirror and leave this place,” John commanded, swallowing hard. “I won’t- I won’t let it near you if you just leave now. We’ll help you when we can.”

Molly nodded once and fled, disappearing back into her mirror before John’s disbelieving eyes.

“I shouldn’t be shocked,” he told Magic. “You do more unbelievable things every day, don’t you?”

Magic shivered in the air and wrapped itself around John like a blanket. The knight sighed and returned to the prince’s side, frowning down at him. As John checked Sherlock’s pulse once again, the door burst open, and in rushed four knights, their swords drawn.

Shan stood behind them, crocodile tears dripping down her face.

“He’s killed Prince William!” she cried, stumbling backwards. She met John’s eye as the knights pulled him away from the prince, and she grinned, her white teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“He’s alive!” John shouted, arms around his chest and under his shoulders and gripping his wrists behind his back. “I swear to God he’s alive! Sherlock! Don’t  _ touch _ me. Get your hands-”

“John?” the prince mumbled. He stirred, his fingers twitching.

“Sherlock!” the knight cried, fighting against the hands that restrained him. “Sherlock, are you all right?”

“John? John, what’s- You, unhand him!”

“Sherlock, don’t-”

“Don’t let him distract you,” the Queen commanded. “He’d do anything to save Sir Watson!”

The prince struggled to his feet as the knights dragged John towards the door.

“Stop!” he shouted, pulling the tallest knight away from John. “I need him!”

“Don’t!” John warned.

The tall knight ripped his arm away from Sherlock and shoved, sending the prince crashing into his table and onto the floor. The brunet yelped as his broken hand crumpled beneath him.

“Sherlock!” A hand covered the blond’s mouth, and he bit down, tasting blood on his tongue. He spat, saliva pink on the gleaming marble floor. “Do something!” he shouted to Magic.  _ “Help _ me!”

Magic shivered and danced in the air like heat on a hot day in hell, and John thought briefly of the Afghan desert - of sand and skin and blood - as the hands restraining him melted away. The knights’ bodies lay around him in a motionless circle, their eyes rolled back in their heads and their mouths slack. John raised his eyes to Sherlock, horrified when he saw the fear in the prince’s eyes.

“Sherlock-”

“What did you do to them?” he whispered.

“It wasn’t me. It was- It was Magic! You saw it. You saw it, didn’t you?”

Slowly, Sherlock shook his curly head. “Are they dead?”

John checked the pulse of one knight, relieved to find it strong and steady.

“No,” he said, “they’re sleeping, but I don’t know when they’ll wake up. Which means we have to go. Now. Sherlock, come on!”

The prince ignored John’s outstretched hand and stood by himself.

“We should- We need to find Soo Lin. She can explain us away,” Sherlock said. “Grab your things.”

Within fifteen minutes, Soo Lin and her wife were leading Sherlock and John to the stables. John held their things as Sherlock hugged Soo Lin goodbye. If John saw tears in the prince’s eyes as Soo Lin cradled his face in her wrinkled hands, he didn’t mention it.

Sherlock climbed into the carriage, and John shook hands with their driver. Soo Lin grabbed his arm before he could clamber in after Sherlock, and she pulled him to his chest in a bone-crushing hug. John’s ears turned red as Sarah pressed her lips to his cheek in a motherly kiss. The women both smiled sadly as he pulled away.

“Take care of him,” Soo Lin pleaded, tears falling from her cloudy eyes.

John stepped back as it hit him.

“You won’t see him again,” he said, his voice soft. Soo Lin pressed her lips together as John continued, “He doesn’t know. You didn’t tell him.”

“I thought that we would have more time,” the woman said.

John was filled with nagging guilt at her words. The knight was the reason they had to be spirited away in the middle of the night with no time for explanation or proper goodbyes. John shook off the familiar feeling of shame (the one that crept upon him whenever he thought affectionately of the prince) and climbed into the waiting carriage, lugging their bags behind him.

Sherlock was curled up in the corner, his knees drawn nearly to his chest. His grey eyes were closed, and he didn’t stir as John settled into the seat across from him. After making sure the curtains were shut, John closed his own eyes and rested against the side of the carriage.

The reins snapped, and the driver shouted, and the carriage moved steadily forward.

~*~*~

The carriage, made of dark wood and iron, was remarkably average. The curtains were dark and heavy to block out light should one need to rest without sunlight streaming in, and the seats were luxuriously upholstered, cushioned and comfortable to sleep on. Sherlock must have slept through miles of snow-covered roads before he woke, roused by a rather jarring bump in the road.

John snored softly on the seat across from Sherlock. The prince watched him for a moment (definitely  _ not _ admiringly, though that was not to say John didn’t have many admirable qualities) before he slowly opened one curtain. Bright light flooded the carriage, but John did not stir. Having decided against waking the blond, Sherlock turned towards the window and let himself admire their surroundings.

Pristine snow covered the everything in sight; the only color besides the white snow and grey sky was the deep, dark green of the exposed pine trees lining the dirt road. It was all so dull, really, and Sherlock hated every minute of it.

“You’ve been quiet,” John said, and Sherlock jumped.

“Have I?”

“Yes. Is everything all right?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Yes, of course everything’s all right.”

John narrowed his eyes but said no more, and Sherlock let out a small sigh of relief. He turned back towards the window, ready to continue ignoring the knight, but John’s next words demanded his attention.

“Are you afraid of me?”

The prince scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?”

Sherlock swung his head around and stared at John for a few moments just to prove a point.

“What do you mean, John?” he asked, smiling innocently.

“All right. You still… After last night, are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then why-”

“Your Magic put me to sleep,” Sherlock snapped. A horrible feeling grew in his stomach as John fell silent. “Oh, come on. It’s hardly important.”

“No, it is!” John retorted. “It  _ is _ important! You’re afraid of-”

“I am  _ not _ afraid of you,” Sherlock spat, his lips twisting into a sneer, “or your bloody Magic, for that matter.”

“Yes, you are!” John insisted, and Sherlock wanted to strangle him. “You’re afraid of Magic, of waking up in that tower again, of facing Moriarty. I know you are! You don’t think  _ I’m _ terrified? I don’t know what Magic will do. I  _ never _ know. I can’t control it, can’t stop it. And we’re probably going to die on this- this  _ quest  _ of yours, anyway, so what does it really matter?”

“If you recall correctly, you’ll remember I never asked you to tag along,” Sherlock argued. “In fact, I’m fairly sure I told you I didn’t need your help.”

“And how do you think  _ that _ would’ve worked out?”

“Could’ve given me a map and sent me off to the capital by myself. I think I’d still be in the castle right now, don’t you, John?”

The knight smiled, and if Sherlock had been anyone else, he would have feared for his life.

“You want to blame me that we’re here? Fine. Blame away,” John said. “But you can’t deny that you need me.”

“I can deny it all I like,” Sherlock snapped.

“Molly said he killed your brother. Moriarty, I mean. What makes you think he won’t kill you once he gets the chance?”

Sherlock froze, his mouth open and eyes wide. His heart hammered against his ribcage, and his chest was unbearably tight. Slowly, he closed his lips and swallowed.

“What makes you think you can protect me? That I want you to?” he asked. 

The words dripped from his tongue like poison and hung in the air between them, silencing them both. John’s mouth clicked shut, and he turned towards his own window, rhythmically clenching and unclenching his fists.

It was dark before either of them spoke again, and only in response to their driver, a balding man with kindly eyes and a quick smile.

“Evenin’, boys,” he said, standing on one side of the open carriage door. “We have a bit of a problem.”

“One of the wheels is stuck in the snow,” Sherlock replied disinterestedly.

“Er, yes, Your Highness,” said the man. “I thought, if you two were amenable, of course, we’d camp out here for the night and try to get it unstuck in the morning. It’s just that the horses need to rest, and I could use a quick kip myself…”

Sherlock sighed, and John shot him a dirty look.

“That’s perfectly fine, Mr. Knight,” John said. “I’ll be happy to help you in the morning.”

“I’d appreciate it, Sir Watson. Let’s hope the night’s not too exciting, yeah?”

“Sorry?”

“Well, we’re in the middle of Baskerville,” Knight replied. “We’re not far from the Moors. And you know the nearest town’s kilometers away from here.”

“You don’t think-”

“Oh, no, there’s nothing to worry about,” the driver assured. “There are blankets and pillows under your seats. I’ll see you boys in the morning. And, uh, Sir Watson, you've still got-” The driver motioned to his own neck, and John turned red, wiping lipstick from his skin.

Sherlock scowled.

“Oh, God. I- Thanks, yeah.”

Knight closed the door, and John and Sherlock were left alone once again. Sherlock watched as John wrapped himself in a thick woolen blanket and settled in for bed. The prince did the same, feeling farther from the knight than he ever had before. He longed to touch John, to lie beside him as they’d done before, to sleep without nightmares. 

He lay awake for some time, staring at the ceiling of the carriage, his mind racing. It seemed that whenever he couldn’t get to sleep, his mind was consumed with thoughts of two men: the man who destroyed him and the man who saved him.

Sherlock cursed himself for becoming so enamored with the knight. To put it simply, there was no time for anything more than their current shaky friendship to develop between the two. As Father used to say, there were more important things to worry about than infatuation, and Sherlock was certain that applied to people as well as his studies.

Suddenly, a long, piercing howl pervaded the still night air. The hair on Sherlock’s arms stood on end, and he shivered as the first howl was answered by a second, third, and fourth. He sat up and turned to John, who was already alert and reaching for his sword.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock hissed. “What’s out there?”

John shook his head and shouldered his quiver.

“Do you remember what I told you about my cousins?” John asked.

“The beasts that roam the streets of Baskerville,” said Sherlock. “But we’re in the middle of the forest-”

“Doesn’t seem to matter much,” John replied. “We’re not safe here.”

“And you’re going to save the three of us?” Sherlock asked. “You’re an idiot. Stay in here.”

John shook his head again. “I can’t do that.”

“John-”

A mangled cry interrupted the prince, and the horses screamed. The sound was abruptly replaced by that of low growls and tearing flesh. John took one look at Sherlock and rushed out of the carriage.

“John!”

“I have to help him!”

“Give me your sword.”

“Sherlock-”

“Give me your sword! I’m a prince, for God’s sake. I was  _ trained!” _ Sherlock shouted. “Give me your sword.”

“Your hand!”

“I’ve got another one!”

John nodded swiftly and unsheathed his sword, handing it to Sherlock without another word. The prince took a deep breath and readied himself to face the hounds of Baskerville.

There was a sharp yelp followed by a dull thud as John’s arrow pierced the skull of the hound looming over their driver’s limp body. A low growl from Sherlock’s left spurred him into action, and he managed to slash one beast across the chest as it lunged at him. It landed heavily on top of him, its weight crushing his chest and its rancid breath making his stomach churn. The thing growled and snapped at Sherlock’s throat. The prince shouted wordlessly as he drove his sword deeper into the beast’s chest, and he pushed the hound off himself, breathing heavily.

John swore loudly, and Sherlock turned to see him on the roof of the carriage, firing at every hound that dared try to reach him. He was marvelous, every arrow finding its target with accuracy close to perfection.

Suddenly, Sherlock was knocked off his feet, and sharp fangs sunk into his left leg. He screamed as the teeth tore into his flesh.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, firing an arrow at the beast attacking the prince. The animal went slack, and John continued, “Get in the carriage!”

“What about you?” Sherlock called.

“I’ll be fine,” John yelled, firing again. “Close the door behind you.”

“You idiot! You’ll run out of arrows before they kill you.”

“I’ll be  _ fine!” _

Sherlock frowned, screamed the knight’s name again, and dragged himself up and into the carriage. He sat on the floor and examined his leg with shaky hands. Six round puncture wounds decorated his pale skin. The prince considered himself lucky that the beast hadn’t torn a chunk of his flesh out of his leg.

The hounds outside (because there were  _ more of them, _ and, God, would they ever stop?) began to throw themselves against either side of the carriage. Sherlock listened carefully to the activity outside, growing more and more anxious as the snarling of hounds continued. John couldn’t last forever, and Sherlock couldn’t let John die if the knight thought Sherlock hated him.

He couldn’t let John die at all.

Sherlock’s stomach lurched as the carriage rocked back and forth. The animals responsible growled and snapped their mighty jaws, and Sherlock hated them more than he’d hated anything before.

“Sherlock!” John yelled. “Sherlock, open the door - the left one! They’re all on the right.”

The prince pushed the door open, and John swung into the carriage from the roof. John locked the door behind him before rushing to Sherlock’s side.

“Let me see your leg.”

Sherlock’s heart stopped as he took in the blond’s disheveled appearance. His shirt had been ripped to shreds, and blood covered his face and soaked his clothes.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, tearing at the knight’s ruined garments. “John, there’s- Is that your blood? Are you hurt? John!”

“No, no,” the knight assured, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own. “I’m fine. I’m fine, I promise. I’m not hurt. It’s Henry’s. He’s dead. I couldn’t help him. Let me help you, all right? Let me help you.”

Sherlock nodded, and John reached for his medical kit as the carriage lurched again.

“Sodding dogs,” John hissed. “I have to clean this, and it’s going to hurt.” He held up a bottle half-full of clear liquid, and he smiled. “I nicked this from the castle physician. Don’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock gasped as the liquid hit his wounds, and John grimaced with him.

“You have the opportunity to steal anything from the King, and you choose alcohol?” the prince asked through his pain. “At least I got an ashtray. Multiple uses.”

John’s lips curled up at the edges.

“You didn't.”

“I did.”

“Mine’s got a purpose, at least. What are we gonna do with an ashtray? Neither of us smoke.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“You're the one who mentioned it.”

John’s fingers slowed, and he looked up at Sherlock with wondrous blue eyes. John’s eyes were so earnest it hurt to look right into them. He looked like an angel. Sherlock didn't believe in angels. He also might've lost a bit more blood than was healthy.

“John?”

The hounds snarled and growled outside the carriage.

“Stay with me, Sherlock. Can you do that?”

“I'd be lost without my doctor.”

The floor seemed to move from beneath Sherlock's body, and all he saw was black.

He woke up to John’s terrified face over his own.

“Sherlock, you have to stay awake, all right?”

“John?”

“They flipped the fucking carriage,” John growled. “You're all right?”

Sherlock nodded. “At least we're not stuck anymore.”

“I don't know what we're gonna do if they don't leave by morning, Sherlock.”

“We're going to die,” he replied.

“That’s not true,” John said. “Deep breaths, all right? You can't lose any more blood. You'll be all right, I promise.”

“You too, John.”

“Yeah-"

A great roar sounded through the forest, and the hair on Sherlock's arms stood on end. Then came the whimpering of the dogs as they were picked off one by one. Lucky ones sprinted away, but those they left behind yelped as pointed teeth sunk into their flesh, talons slashed their hides, fire scorched their skin.

John swore.

“Something bigger just joined us,” he said. “Hopefully it doesn't care about us.”

“It's Mycroft,” Sherlock replied softly. “We'll be fine, John. Mycroft’s here.”

With that, the prince closed his eyes.

~*~*~

John stayed close to Sherlock until morning; only once did he leave the carriage, and only to thank Mycroft for saving their arses.

“He’s all right,” John had assured. “He lost a bit of blood, so he’s sleeping right now, but he should be fine by morning.”

_ T-A-K-E C-A-R-E O-F H-I-M, _ Mycroft had replied.

John had nodded, and the dragon licked his chops, revealing bloodstained teeth. Mycroft slithered off into the woods not long after that, leaving John alone to watch over the sleeping prince.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” John said quietly. “And about what I said about him. You know, earlier. It can’t be easy for you, dealing with that on top of the whole Moriarty business. That’s why you want to kill him so badly, isn’t it? I can understand that. If anyone hurt Harry… We’re not close, you know, but I’d make them hope I’d never found them.”

Sherlock stirred, and John went silent. Slowly, he brushed errant curls from the prince’s forehead.

_ Checking for a fever, _ John told himself. He didn’t believe it for a second.

The prince awoke hours later, just as the sun was rising. John sighed in relief when Sherlock opened his eyes.

“John? How long have I been asleep?”

The knight shrugged. “Few hours. Can’t be past ten, though, so we’ve plenty of time to get to town and get help.”

Sherlock nodded but remained where he was on the floor.

“Mycroft came,” he said simply.

“Yes, he did. He said hello, hopes you’re feeling well. I told him you’d be fine so he wouldn’t worry.”

“Oh. Thank you, John. Did you thank him for killing those things?”

“Of course I did.”

“Mm. Good,” Sherlock replied. “John, look on the bright side of all this.”

“Bright side?”

“If Shan and Northumberland’s knights come after us, they’ll find the carriage and assume we’re dead. No trouble for us.”

John laughed and shook his head.

“You’re mad, you are. I’m gonna check your leg before we head out, all right?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, and John carefully changed his bandages.

“How are we getting out of here?” the prince asked, eying the door above them.

“Can you stand?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, so John began throwing their few possessions out of the carriage. He hauled himself up and over the door before reaching down to Sherlock. The prince grabbed John’s arms and shakily rose to his feet. John did the rest of the work, grunting with the effort of pulling the prince out of the lopsided carriage. They lay on the side breathing heavily, silence stretching between them.

“You’re gaining weight,” John finally said, panting, “but you’re still so light.”

“I’ll work on that,” Sherlock replied absently. “You have to help me walk. I don’t- I don’t think I can make it on my own.”

“Yes, yeah, of course.”

Sherlock nodded, his face turned towards the sky, and John smiled.

It wasn’t long until they were on their way, Sherlock’s arm around John’s neck and John’s arm around Sherlock’s waist. The prince limped along slowly, grimacing in pain every time he accidentally put too much weight on his injured leg.

“I asked Magic to heal it while you were sleeping,” John said. “I guess it didn’t do much, did it?”

“Was it helping you fight the hounds?” Sherlock asked, his curious voice betraying his stoic face.

“I think so,” John replied, his nose wrinkling at the memory. “Bloody things. I think maybe it made them slower. Easier to kill them that way, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s a first.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off with a sharp gasp. John froze and turned towards the prince, their faces just inches apart.

“Sherlock? Are you all right?”

The prince clenched his jaw. “Just fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, John, I’m not really certain. Yes, I’m sure!”

“Well, you don’t have to be so rude about it, do you?” John replied, chuckling to himself. “Watch out. I’m gonna carry you.”

“What? No, you can’t- John!”

John laughed as Sherlock yelped, wrapping his arms tightly around the knight’s neck as he scooped Sherlock into his arms. The prince scowled, and John stifled a laugh.

“You can’t carry me  _ and _ the bags,” Sherlock said. “It’s not practical. You won’t last-”

“I’m a knight, Sherlock,” John replied, “and you weigh less than the bags. I promise I’ll be fine. This doesn’t hurt your leg, does it?”

“No,” the prince answered, a frown tugging at his lips. “It’s… better.”

John grinned triumphantly as he carried Sherlock through the forest, his arms holding the prince close to his chest. Sherlock didn’t talk much; John wasn’t sure if he was hurt by the prince’s silence or grateful for it. The sound of their breathing filled the small space between them, interrupted only by the crunching of snow beneath John’s feet.

A woman’s voice cried out from the trees, and John froze, his body tensing as the sound drew closer.

“Will I ever be granted rest?” Sherlock muttered with a sigh, and John had to stop himself from laughing as a slight blonde woman burst from the trees, blood and tears on her face.

“Oh! Oh, you’ve got to help me,” she cried (not without giving them a strange look first). “Please- it’s my sister. She’s hurt.”

Gingerly, John set the prince on his own feet. Sherlock’s touch lingered on his shoulders; John was sure he imagined it.

“We’ll help you get to town,” the knight replied without thinking. “You didn’t leave her alone, did you?”

“Idiot,” Sherlock mumbled. “Of course she did.”

John glared at the prince, who merely shrugged.

“I’m John,” he said, “and he’s Sh-”

“William,” Sherlock interrupted, his deep voice cold and callous.

“This is  _ William,” _ John replied. “And you are?”

~*~*~

The magpie sat perched on a bough, nestled comfortably within the pine needles. It watched intently as the carriage passed beneath it, led by two silvery horses and a man with russet hair. A strong breeze made the bird ruffle its feathers, and it took off, wings moving furiously against the wind.

The sun was high in the sky as the bird dropped into the clearing. There lay a white tiger, its fur nearly blending into the snow. The cat licked its chops before it stood. Its fur rippled, and its skin stretched, and its bones popped, and it transformed, slowly, into a beautiful woman. Short blonde hair brushed her shoulders, and a knowing smirk played at her lips. She pulled her tiger-skin cloak more tightly around her frame, hiding her black-clad legs.

“Nice to see you’re alive,” she said, her voice like steel.

The magpie squawked, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“We’ve got a job.”

Pain erupted over the magpie’s small body as it transformed. It left the woman with a dull ache in her bones and a persistent itch under her naked skin. Her hair, long and dark, fell in soft waves over her shoulders, framing the dark  _ M _ branded on her chest.

“What kind of job?” she asked, her bare feet numbing from the cold. She would do anything the other woman asked.

“Ugh. Put something on, will you?” the blonde demanded, throwing a leather bag at the brunette’s feet.

The brunette pursed her lips but obeyed the other woman, dressing slowly, giving the other woman a bit of a show. It thrilled her to have the blonde’s eyes on her body; she knew she was attractive, but the blonde only rarely seemed interested.

“Lace my corset?” the brunette suggested.

She shuddered as the blonde ran her lithe fingers over her pale skin. The brunette jerked backwards, gasping, as the other woman tugged mercilessly at the ribbon on her clothes. Her waist was cinched uncomfortably, the fabric pulled too tightly across her stomach and chest.

“Sorry, birdie,” the blonde offered quietly, brushing the hair away from the other woman’s right shoulder.

The brunette’s heart thumped against her ribcage at the pet name. Her breath hitched when she felt soft lips on her skin, and it stopped altogether when those lips went away.

“Mor-”

Teeth sunk into her shoulder, and claws tore at her flesh, and she couldn’t remember when she had started screaming.

~*~*~

Magic may love humanity, but only humans know humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me forever to write because I'm super lazy and went on vacation and didn't have a lot of direction but! Here it is. Hope you liked it.
> 
> Camp Nano is this month, so I should be writing way more than I was. Hopefully I'll finish this this summer. The outline is 14 chapters. Hopefully it won't be much longer than that. Once I finish the whole thing, I'll up the posting speed to once or maybe twice a week. Or maybe I won't finish it that quickly.
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, hated it, or have any suggestions. It helps keep me motivated!! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of edited by me and my friend.  
> Feel free to tell me if you notice any mistakes or inconsistencies that particularly bother you.  
> Enjoy! :)

It was fascinating to watch John work on someone who wasn’t Sherlock. The prince couldn’t take his eyes off John’s dextrous fingers as he wound bandages around the brunette’s arm and shoulder, a look of intense concentration on his face. The woman seemed to shrink away from the knight’s touch, and Sherlock scowled.

“It was a hound that got you, then?” John asked. “We’ve had our own problems with them.”

“Yes,” the blonde replied seriously. “It was horrible. I think it was just a baby. I managed to scare it off with this,” she continued, holding up a bloodied dagger. Sherlock had noticed that before. He had become fixated on it, on her, watching the blonde woman out of the corner of his eye as John worked on her companion.

“It’s good you had it with you,” John replied. “Otherwise, you might not have been so lucky.”

“I hate to think of it,” said the brunette tightly. She held a blanket over her chest, hiding her skin not out of modesty but entitlement. Her held was held high, and her shoulders held back, and she looked at John like it was a challenge.

“Will she be all right?” the blonde asked. Sherlock couldn’t remember her name. He really couldn’t care less. He just needed her to stop looking at his John  _ like that. _

John smiled warmly and assured her that yes, her sister would be just fine.

“We’ll help you get to town,” he said. “We’re going that way ourselves. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Thank you,” the blonde gushed. “I don’t know what we would’ve done if I hadn’t run into you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied dryly, “how lucky for you to run into a doctor, of all people.”

The blonde just smiled. Sherlock wanted to tear the look off her face. She turned back to John with hearts in her eyes as he helped the other woman to her feet.

The walk to Baskerville was long. Irene (John had angrily reminded Sherlock of her name a few minutes ago) was able to walk on her own, but Sherlock really wasn’t. Luckily for the prince, John was there to steady him, his warmth reaching Sherlock even through layers of clothing and blankets they’d salvaged from the carriage wreck. 

Even though Sherlock couldn’t be happier to be so close to John, his mood was dampened by a certain blonde woman taking every opportunity to touch the knight, brushing her arm against his or using his shoulder to steady herself. Irene, the one who was injured and might have cause to need support, trudged along silently behind them. Sherlock had glanced back at her enough times to notice the sour look she directed at the back of John’s head.

“My sister always gets into trouble,” the blonde prattled on. “She’d be dead if I didn’t take care of her, and not just because of last night.”

“I can take care of myself,” Irene argued. “I wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

“Oh, hush. You know you’d be a wreck without me.”

“It’s hardly her fault she was attacked and you weren’t,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure, if the beast had had any sense, it would’ve chosen to maul you instead.”

“Sherlock!” the knight scolded, his eyebrows knit together.

“Not good?”

“Of course it wasn’t good!” the blonde screeched.

“It was a bit not good, Sherlock,” John muttered.

“Rest assured I never meant any harm by it.”

“Never meant any harm?!”

“Oh, stop it, Mary,” Irene cut in. She shot Sherlock a conspiratorial smile. He couldn’t help but frown.  _ Mary. _ How dull. “He said he didn’t mean any harm, so he didn’t.”

“My own sister,” Mary hissed, and Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out.

“You keep saying  _ sister. _ Why do you keep  _ saying- _ You’re not sisters, not even related, but you keep saying it. Why?”

Mary stiffened beside John, narrowing her blue eyes at the prince.

“Of course we’re sisters, Sherlock.”

“William,” he corrected, his voice hard.

“How come John calls you Sherlock?”

“I  _ like _ John.”

Mary opened her mouth to speak, but Irene interrupted her.

“Our parents were always very close,” she said. “When my father died, Mary’s parents took me in.”

“Never knew your mother, then,” Sherlock mused. “Could explain your desperation for Mary’s approval, though I can read that by the way you straighten whenever she glances at you, so-”

“Sherlock! That’s enough,” John commanded, frowning. Sherlock hated that look on John, and he hated that he put it there. “What is  _ with _ you?”

Irene didn’t seem too put out about the whole thing, so Sherlock saw no need to apologize.

“Well. I’m often told I don’t know when to shut my mouth.”

“Maybe if you thought about other people first,” Mary suggested.

Sherlock thought about the dumb shock and horror that would grace Mary’s face if she ever found out he was a prince. Wouldn’t it be novel to tell her and watch her trip over herself in her haste to apologize?

John wouldn’t like that. He would think it too cruel.

“Are you all right, though?” John asked, his blue eyes bright with concern. “Is your leg bothering you?”

Sherlock’s leg  _ was _ bothering him. In fact, plenty of things were bothering Sherlock, the most immediate being the arrival of Mary and her  _ sister.  _ Then there was the topic of Shan (which, while it bothered Sherlock immensely, was not something he particularly wanted to talk about in front of company) and their argument in the carriage before they were attacked. Obviously the threat of Moriarty loomed over him like the blade of the guillotines at home he had been disappointed to learn hadn’t been in use for nearly a century. With every passing day, the blade dropped lower, and Sherlock was sure that it would have chopped off his head by now if John hadn’t been at his side to readjust the ropes.

“No,” he lied, “it’s fine. I’m fine.”

John shot him a suspicious look but pushed no further.

That is, until Sherlock lurched forward and fell into the snow, his forearms taking the brunt of the impact. He could have sworn he felt a small, strong hand on his back the moment before he lost his balance, but John wouldn’t believe Mary or Irene had shoved him. Sherlock barely believed it himself.

“Oh, you’re fine, are you?” John asked, hauling Sherlock to his feet. “How’s your hand?”

“Fine,” the prince answered. 

The knight laughed softly and shook his head. “You’re a menace. Up you go, then.”

“What- John!”

Sherlock’s face burned as John lifted him into his arms once again.

It was very…  _ interesting  _ that John could handle Sherlock so easily. Admirable, even. In fact, Sherlock liked being in John’s arms very much. Maybe too much. He frowned at himself even as he rested his curly head against John’s solid chest.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered. He wasn’t sure if he was more embarrassed at his reaction to John manhandling him or smug that John was touching  _ him _ rather than the women behind them. Both seemed a little unreasonable. That didn’t stop Sherlock from wondering.

“Ridiculous it may be,” John replied, “but necessary it is.”

“You sound like an old man,” the prince countered. His eyes widened as John laughed, the sound rumbling comfortingly through his chest. “Thank God you’ve not got the body of one.”

John chuckled, and it sent a soft vibration through his body and right into Sherlock’s. The prince reveled in the sound and feel of John’s joy, his mind already racing with ideas to get John laughing again. If he could put John’s laughter in a bottle and keep it close to his heart forever, he would.

Sometimes Sherlock’s thoughts worried him: thoughts like bottling John’s breath or of doing experiments on Mary’s eyeballs. Sherlock’s current hypothesis was that they were trained on John far too much for her interest to be platonic, which also bothered Sherlock a great deal. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust John; by now, it was obvious Sherlock trusted the knight with his life. No, it was that Sherlock didn’t trust Mary. If John became distracted by her attention- Well, he wouldn’t, would he? John was his guide, his doctor, his partner, his friend. Sherlock needed him, and John  _ knew _ Sherlock needed him. The knight was too good a man to abandon him for a woman’s affections. Sherlock was sure of it.

“It’ll be night soon,” John said, startling Sherlock away from his thoughts. “I’m gonna put you down for a minute and look at the map while I can still see.” Sherlock leaned against John while the blond pointed to a little squiggle. “See that?”

“That’s the frozen river we passed a few hours back,” Sherlock said. “We’re not far from Baskerville at all.”

“We should be there in two hours, three hours tops,” John said.

“So do you think we can make it there tonight?” Irene asked.

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied. “If you’re not too reluctant to walk through an hour or so of darkness.”

“What about the hounds?” Mary asked, her hands on John’s shoulder. “What if we get attacked again?”

“Well, Sherlock and I can fight them, sort of, and you said you managed to scare off another,” John said. “I think we’ll be fine.”

Mary smiled uncertainly, and John smiled back. Sherlock stood there feeling like an idiot. He glanced back at Irene only to find that she looked exactly how he felt.

The sun sunk slowly behind the trees, and the forest grew dark, and the four walked on.

~*~*~

Magic hummed ceaselessly in the air around John. It wrapped itself around the knight (and the prince, come to think of it) protectively, keeping a bubble of warm air and fear around them. John wondered if Sherlock could feel it, too. The prince had been on edge ever since they’d left the carriage wreck. Of course, there was the matter of Sherlock’s shit leg to take into account, but the prince wasn’t one to give in to his body without a fight.

John supported Sherlock with one arm, walking along slowly beside him. The prince’s body was plastered to John’s side, and John’s heart nearly beat out of his chest. It had been even more trying to have Sherlock in his arms, nestled against his chest. He’d been sure the prince would hear his hammering heartbeat, would deduce his feelings and flay him open like the poor bastard he was.

The worst part of it all was that Sherlock could crush his heart and John would still find it absolutely brilliant.

He considered Sherlock thoughtfully, his eyes roaming over the prince’s pale face. The man’s breath was ragged, and there was a thin layer of sweat on his brow. Pain. Sherlock was in pain, and of course he wouldn’t say anything because he was a stubborn git who had no sense of self-preservation whatsoever. Grey eyes turned to him, and John flushed.

“What?” Sherlock asked. “What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

John licked his lips (a nervous tick, usually). 

“No, nothing, no reason,” he rushed. “It’s just- Are you all right? You look like you’re in pain.”

“I’ll work on that,” Sherlock quipped, his breath visible in the cold air. He swallowed hard. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything that might numb the pain, would you?”

“Surely we can find something in Baskerville,” Mary cut in. “Irene’s never handled pain very well. I don’t want her hurting anymore.”

“I’m fine, Mother,” Irene muttered, and John let out a sharp laugh before biting his tongue.

He looked back at the women to find a scowl etched deep into the blonde’s features.

“Don’t be cruel to me,” Mary spat. “I’m only trying to help you. I’m only  _ ever _ trying to help you.”

Irene shrunk away, and John frowned before turning back to Sherlock. The prince also had a sour look on his face, and the knight wasn’t sure it was just physical discomfort. John tightened his grip on the prince and willed Magic to heal him, to help him escape his pain. Sherlock turned to John with wide eyes as Magic flowed from the knight’s fingers.

When it was done, Sherlock was sweating even more profusely, his breath coming in short, quick gasps. Seeing the prince in such a state did terrible, wicked, evil things to John’s body.

“All right?” John asked again.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replied. “You’re acting like a mother hen.”

“I’m acting like a doctor,” the blond countered, smiling faintly. He caught Sherlock’s eye and jerked his head backwards ever so slightly, towards Irene and Mary (the former of whom, it was safe to say, suffered from comparable pain and might be open to Magical healing). “Maybe we should rest for a bit. You and Irene-”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he shook his head.

“No, no! Like you said earlier. We’re not far from town. We’ll rest then.”

“We’ll get Mary and Irene back home, and-”

“We don’t live in Baskerville,” Mary quipped.

“So what were you doing in the middle of the woods with no supplies?” John asked. “Where do you actually live?”

“Belgravia,” Mary replied. “It’s all Irene’s fault, really. She-”

“I’m sure it is,” Sherlock snapped, “but I’d really rather not hear about it right now.”

John stifled a laugh and tightened his grip on the prince.

They reached Baskerville an hour after the sun had dipped below the horizon. John bought two rooms and insisted the women share one, as “it just wouldn’t be very proper, and we’re proper sort of blokes, and you’re proper sort of women.” Mary waxed lyrical about John’s endless kindness in hard and trying times (or something along those lines. John wasn’t very motivated to listen to her much longer.).

There were two beds in each room. John stared at his for a very long time before turning to rebandage the prince’s wounds.

“The stitches look good. It’ll leave some scars, but you can get salve for that nowadays. I’ll go down to the shops tomorrow, see if they have anything that’ll speed up the healing process,” the knight suggested.

“Bring Mary with you.”

John’s eyes snapped to Sherlock’s. “What?”

“Bring Mary with you,” the prince repeated. “She enjoys… you. She’ll enjoy your company. It’ll give me a chance to get to know Irene.”

John pictured it: Irene hanging onto Sherlock, her dainty arms around his waist, red lipstick stains on his regal face, hands on pale skin in dark hair on red lips-

Sherlock and Irene.

They matched.

“We don’t know either of them,” John reasoned, slowly resuming work. “It’s not the best time for… you know.”

“For what?”

John huffed out a little laugh. “You know. Romancing women, I suppose? You and I are- I mean, everything with saving London and all that.”

The prince was quiet as John packed up his medical kit. John worried that he had something wrong, something the brilliant prince had picked up on, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what it was.

“I actually…” John sighed. “Well, you’re probably going to think I’m an idiot, but I don’t think we should trust them.”

“Why not?”

“Because whatever attacked Irene wasn’t a hound.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he looked more excited than he’d been in days.

“You think so?”

“Her wound didn’t look at all like yours, and not just due to the placement of it. The canines had to have been three inches long. The thing that bit you couldn’t have had canines that big. The depth was about even all the way through. It wasn’t a hound that bit Irene, and, whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t a baby. Can’t have been,” John explained. “If they lied about being sisters and about what attacked Irene, then what else are they lying about?”

“Excellent deduction, John,” Sherlock replied, slightly breathless. A gleeful smile lit up his features. “Extraordinary. Just amazing.”

Heat rose to John’s face even as he protested, “It was just a medical examination. Anyone could tell if they knew what to look for.”

“I wouldn’t have even guessed.”

“All right, well, now you’re just lying,” John laughed. “Are we going to think of a plan or not?”

“A plan? Yes.  _ Yes, _ John, you’re a genius!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Obviously, we think of a plan to expose them and then rid ourselves of them… one way or another.”

“I’ll bring Mary to the shops, then, and suggest you and Irene keep each other company while we’re out. You know, rest up and all that. We’ll try to learn more about them and compare stories in the evening,” John said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “That was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You just let me think I made it up on my own so I wouldn’t say no.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, not entirely. I truly had no idea about the… teeth thing.”

John laughed. “It’s a good plan. Effective immediately, then? I’ll butter up Mary, and you deal with Irene?”

There was an adorably confused look on Sherlock’s face as he repeated, “Butter?”

“Yeah. You know. To butter up someone. Is that a new saying?”

“My family certainly never applied butter to anyone  _ we _ wanted to get close to,” Sherlock replied. “Is the buttering consensual?”

“Oh, God, it’s not- I’m just trying to get her to like me. It’s an expression. I’d never- No one spreads butter on people.”

“You don’t truly know a man until you witness his reaction to unsolicited buttering.”

John stared at Sherlock in silence for a few moments before laughter bubbled up in his chest and came tumbling out in a mad, high-pitched giggle. Sherlock’s laugh, smooth and sonorous, joined his own, and soon they were tangled in a breathless heap on the prince’s bed. Neither of them noticed the magpie land on their windowsill.

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” John gasped.

“And you had to listen to Zhi Zhu struggle making battle plans,” Sherlock countered.

“That wasn’t just me!”

The pair succumbed to laughter again. John gazed happily at the prince, overwhelmed with the urge to plant a joyous kiss on his smiling lips. But that was dangerous territory, so he tore his eyes away, cursing himself and his stupid heart.

He was more angry than surprised to find the bird in his window. It squawked and flew away once he started towards it, but that only made him more furious. John should’ve killed it ages ago.

He should have done a lot of things, really.

“John?” a small voice called from the bed.

“Yeah? Oh. It’s nothing, Sherlock.” The knight could tell the other man didn’t believe him. “Anyway. It’s been a long day, and I’m knackered. I know we have some things to talk about, but I promise we’ll get to it in the morning. Is that all right with you?”

Sherlock nodded. “It’s been an eventful few days. Not too much excitement for you, is it?”

John laughed. “No, never.”

“Good. That’s good.”

~*~*~

The bird, having narrowly escaped John’s wrath, flew off to the woods just outside Baskerville, where the trees thinned and the town nearly faded into the black of night. It settled on a bough and pecked softly at its bloodied wing, unable to stop worrying at the injury. It preferred its human body over the one covered in feathers, but its wound would only add to the usual pain of transformation.

It allowed itself no more than a minute of active misery, during which it sang a slow, sorry song. The trees remained motionless, and all life was quiet. The bird hung its head in resignation before flying back to the inn and slipping through an open window.

There it suffered through mutating into her preferred form. Miraculously, her stitches had stayed intact through the stretching of her skin and shifting of her bones. She stood naked in the middle of the room, shoulders stiff and spine rigid. The other woman in the room cast her a cursory glance before turning back to her writing desk.

“Well? Anything to report?” she asked, quill scratching against parchment.

Irene shook her head. “They made battle plans with the King of Northumberland, but we know how that turned out. John noticed me on the windowsill and shooed me away.”

“Is that it?”

“They were laughing together when I landed.”

Slowly, Mary set her quill on her desk. She turned to Irene, her face blank.

“Is that  _ it?  _ You didn’t try to get to them any other way?”

“What other way was there?” Irene countered. “Did you want me to hide under their beds?”

Frowning deeply, Mary shook her head and continued writing. “As usual, you’ve been a disappointment. I can’t imagine why I thought you’d have anything useful to say.”

Irene set her jaw and trained her eyes on the floor.

“For God’s sake, don’t just stand there,” Mary snapped. “Either put something on or sit on their windowsill until you learn something worth my time.”

“What are you writing?” Irene asked instead.

“Our story,” Mary replied. “You’ll memorize it by tomorrow morning.”

“And why are you writing that?”

“William knew-”

“You can say his real name, you know. It’s not as if we didn’t know it before we-”

“Get in the habit of calling him  _ William, _ or you’ll turn him against us,” Mary ordered. “William knew that we weren’t related. What else will he be able to figure out?”

“We’re clever too, you know.”

“I’m clever, you mean,” the blonde replied, the insult rolling naturally off her tongue. “I know you’ll find someway to ruin everything, but do try your best not to let our secrets out.”

“I won’t ruin anything,” Irene argued. “And you’re the one who’ll turn Sherlock against us if you keep going after John like you are.”

Instead of responding, Mary set down her quill and stood, her desk chair scraping against the wooden floor. She stopped only inches from Irene, looking down at her with narrowed eyes.

“Well,  _ you _ can hardly be around him without looking like you want to rip his head off.”

“You want the same-”

“Yes, but I can  _ act _ like nothing would make me happier than to let him have me. You can’t even do that, and you’re the one standing here naked like a damn tart,” Mary said. “Didn’t I tell you to put some clothes on?”

“You’re not my mother.”

Mary smiled as if she knew exactly how much power she held over Irene.

“You’re right, birdie,” she said, her voice soft. She traced Irene’s stitches with one barely-there fingertip, her breath ghosting over the sewn-together skin. “I’m sorry.”

The slap came as a surprise, pain bursting over Irene’s cheek as her head snapped to one side. She stumbled back, her hand rising to cup the offended skin. Far too late, she wished she had heeded Mary’s advice. She was naked and vulnerable and scared beyond belief, and she longed for even the flimsiest of barriers between herself and the woman before her.

“He wanted to kill you, you know. Moriarty. He didn’t see the point in keeping you around. He knew Molly was useful, though she was mostly just fun for him,” Mary ranted, advancing on Irene slowly. “But  _ you!  _ I convinced him to keep you alive, told him you might be able to help us. If you spoil this for us, it’s  _ my _ downfall,  _ my _ failure,  _ my _ death on  _ your _ hands. Do you understand?”

Irene nodded pitifully, tearing a blanket off on bed and hiding her body from Mary’s angry eyes.

“Answer me!”

“Yes! I do. I understand.”

“Good. Keep that in mind tomorrow. I’m going to get John alone, and you’ll be left with William. Stick to the story. Make him like you. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Now go to bed or get out of here.”

“All right,” Irene said from where she remained on the floor, her voice smaller than she would’ve liked.

Mary sighed, and the tension in her body melted away as she held out her hand.

“You know I don’t want to hurt you, birdie,” she said, “but you leave me no choice. I have to do it. It’s for your own good.”

Irene took the offered hand and let herself be drawn into the other woman’s warm embrace. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Mary’s shiny blonde hair as nimble fingers traced patterns on her back, their skin separated only by a thin blanket.

Mary pulled away first, smiling softly down at Irene.

“Go to bed, birdie. Tomorrow, we have work to do.”

~*~*~

Magic bows to one other force, and one alone.

While Magic grants blessings or thrusts blights upon humankind, Love motivates humans to do all that for themselves. Magic has never seen miracles so spectacular or disasters so hideous as the things humans will do for Love.

Magic bows to Love, for so do its precious humans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of one really long chapter, but it ended up being like 25 pages (and I'm still not done with it), so I split it in two, added a bit to this half, and made it its own chapter. Thanks for being so patient with me while I figure this out.
> 
> Feel free to tell me if you notice any mistakes or inconsistencies that particularly bother you.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I really appreciate everyone continuing to read this story!!
> 
> Please leave a kudos or a comment if you're able. It helps motivate me, and it always makes my day :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only kind of edited. Longer chapter this update!
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock lay in bed, breathing steadily through his nose. He closed his eyes, but his mind was so loud he couldn’t sleep. He thought mostly of John and debated everything the blond would want to talk about in the morning. Would they even have time? Would Mary and Irene interrupt?

The prince turned to gaze at the sleeping knight, ignoring the pain in his leg and in his hand. He sighed and closed his eyes again. It felt right, sharing a room with John once again.

John spoke to himself in his sleep. It was very faint, muffled by the knight’s pillow, but Sherlock caught a few phrases here and there. Most of it was nonsense punctuated with soft sighs or grunts or shuffling readjustments.

The knight had been peacefully sleeping for a few hours when he began to cry out. He thrashed about as if he were in pain, clutching his shoulder. (Sherlock had caught a few glimpses of John’s naked torso, but he never could get a good look at John’s scar.) The prince softly called John’s name, struggling to sit up. The knight let out an anguished groan as Sherlock made his way towards his bed.

Sherlock reached out to the blond. “John?”

The prince’s fingers had barely made contact with John’s bad shoulder before the knight bolted upright, his tearful eyes wide and his face blanched.

“Sherlock?”

“John, it’s me. You’re all right. We’re in Baskerville, remember?”

The knight hurriedly wiped tears and sweat from his face, his hands shaking.

“John?”

“Yeah, I’m- I’m fine,” he replied, his voice cracking. “Did I wake you? God, I’m sorry. I dunno what’s wrong with me-”

“No! You didn’t wake me. I wasn’t sleeping.”

John chuckled to himself, covering his eyes with one hand. “You idiot. Rest will help your wounds heal.”

“I was resting,” Sherlock protested. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve been better. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal with me. With the-”

“Nightmares.”

“Yeah. Those.”

“No matter. I get them too. John, I can’t stand on this leg for much longer, so-”

“Oh! Oh, yeah, sit here,” the knight insisted, making room for Sherlock on the bed. “Sorry. I didn’t think-”

“Stop apologizing, John. It’s boring.”

John laughed, and Sherlock smiled.

“You look terrible,” the blond mused quietly. “Like you haven’t slept for days.”

“I haven’t, really.”

“And why is that?”

“It was more difficult to fall asleep in the castle than I would have thought. It seems I’ve gotten used to having you around.”

John turned to hide his smile. Sherlock saw right through it.

“Have you even tried sleeping since we got here?” the knight asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll think it’s foolish.”

“No I won’t. You can tell me,” John encouraged. “Who am I going to tell?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I don’t want to wake up in that tower again. I never want to go back there. But when I close my eyes…”

“You don’t know where you’ll wake up.”

The prince nodded. “I told you it was foolish.”

“It’s not foolish. I’d come get you again,” John said, a note of finality in his voice. “I know where it is. You could wake up in that tower tomorrow, and I’d be on my way to get you out.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re telling the truth.”

“Of course I am.”

“But you hardly know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock sighed. “What are your nightmares about, John?”

Startled, John replied, “You don’t want to know about that.”

“Yes I do. You’re more interesting than you think.”

John went quiet. Sherlock had enough time to wonder if he’d said something not good before John spoke again.

“Afghanistan, mostly. Sand, heat, sun. There’s blood, of course. Sometimes there’s fighting, and sometimes I get shot. Sometimes I can’t- I can’t get to someone who needs me. I can hear them calling, but I can’t…” John let out a ragged sigh. “Sometimes you’re there too. It’s… strange, to say the least. You’re not meant for Afghanistan.”

“Thank you, John.”

He still wouldn’t look at Sherlock. “What do you mean?”

“For telling me.”

“Yeah, well. You know mine, right? You should tell me yours. But then, I don’t really mean that.”

“All right.”

John shook his head. “You don’t  _ have _ to tell me, Sherlock. Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence, neither of them daring to speak. Crickets chirped outside the window. Their soft breathing filled the room, and Sherlock felt at peace for the first time in days. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and leaned back on his elbows.

“You all right?”

“Yes.”

“Does your leg hurt?”

“No.”

“Yes it does.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Almost every time, I’m in the tower. Occasionally, my brothers are there. Sometimes I die there. Sometimes I see you standing over my corpse.”

“What- Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. Some of them are about Moriarty.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yes. Those always… Sherrinford’s in those.”

“Your brother?” John guessed. Sherlock nodded. “Older or younger?”

“Younger.”

John was quiet when he spoke. “How old was he?”

“Nine,” Sherlock answered, his voice rough. “He loved fencing. I let him win at first, but he was getting so good. He would’ve- He would’ve beat me honestly within a year. I was looking forward to it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He wanted us to call him ‘Ford’ because I’d changed my name to Sherlock. Said he wanted to be just like me. Apparently I was the same with Mycroft, though I don’t remember it. He killed him, John. Moriarty killed him. He was nine. He was a  _ child.” _

“Oh, no, Sherlock, you’re crying!” John exclaimed, hastily wiping tears from Sherlock’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to- to lead into all this.”

“I’m all right, John.”

“No, you’re not,” the knight protested. “You’re decidedly  _ not _ all right. And that’s fine. It’s all fine. Neither am I.”

Sherlock wiped his own face and sighed, covering his eyes with an arm thrown over his face. John settled in beside him, pulling the blanket over them both. Sherlock felt the knight’s eyes on him, but he couldn’t bring himself to look back.

“Would you have slept with her?”

John tensed.  _ “What?” _

“Shan,” Sherlock clarified. “If I hadn’t barged in, would you have-”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No, I don’t know! She threatened me, my family. She could destroy the entirety of Lauriston without batting an eye,” John reasoned. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t run in, which is why I’m so insanely glad you did.”

“You didn’t want to? Even a little bit?”

“No, Sherlock!”

“Really? Surely you found her attractive.”

John sighed and turned away. “I suppose, but I didn’t want to sleep with her. If I had been anyone else, she would have done the same. She didn’t want me. She wanted to use me. I’m not really eager to be used, I guess. So I might have slept with her, but I didn’t want to. Are you happy now?”

“No,” Sherlock replied. “But my questions have been answered. I think I’ll try to get some sleep, now, John.”

“Like I’ve been saying.”

“Well, only a fool argues with his doctor.”

“That’s why I’m worried about you. You’re an idiot.”

“You’re the idiot,” Sherlock insisted, pulling the blankets over his shoulders.

“My mistake,” the knight replied. “It’s definitely me.”

“I’m glad you agree. Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

The prince woke later than he’d intended; John was already gone, his spot in bed cold and empty. Sherlock groaned weakly and sat up, grimacing as his leg protested the movement. He looked to the other bed and jumped as his gaze met another, pale eyes intense and curious.

Time to start the play.

“Hello,” Irene chirped. She lay comfortably on the bed, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak and her legs crossed delicately. “You were sleeping so long I began to wonder if you were dead.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You’d have been able to tell if I were breathing or not. Where’s John?”

The woman’s face instantly soured. “He’s with Mary. They went to the shops. John said I should stay here with you. Some nonsense about resting, and all that.”

“Hmm, yes, that does sound like him,” Sherlock replied. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, about an hour or so.”

“And did John say when he’d be back?”

“Only that he was going to look for something to numb the pain.”

Sherlock nodded, more to himself than Irene, and pulled his covers tighter around himself.

“Are you going to put something on?”

Irene looked down at her nightgown, her bare legs completely exposed.

“Aw, are you too proper to look at a woman’s knees?” Irene teased. “Or are you just too young? What are you, sixteen?”

“Eighteen,” Sherlock replied easily. “And yourself? Not more than twenty.”

“Twenty-two,” Irene corrected. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, but she took no notice, choosing to draw her knees up, crossing one leg over the other. Her nightgown shifted dangerously high, baring her pale upper thigh. “I wasn’t going to put anything else on, no. Why? Does it make you uncomfortable, William?”

Slowly, Sherlock relinquished his death grip on his blankets. “No.”

“Good,” Irene countered, a playful smile tugging at her lips. “The day would be so dreadfully  _ boring _ if it did.”

“You had something exciting planned?” Sherlock asked. He blushed as he realized his wording might have been better.

“Oh, nothing planned,” the woman laughed, “but that’s what makes it exciting, don’t you think? Anything could happen.”

With that, she sent a sly, suggestive smile in his direction.

“No, it couldn’t,” Sherlock argued. “The ‘anything’ to which you’re referring - something of the sexual nature, I’m sure - could never happen. We’re in for quite an unexciting day after all, it seems.”

“You say that so confidently,” Irene replied, pouting. “Why is that?”

“You’re a lesbian,” Sherlock returned, “and I’m gay. Couldn’t happen.”

The look of shock on Irene’s face soon gave way to a bright, cheerful smile.

“How’d you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mary’s shown romantic interest in John. You haven’t.”

Irene shook her head in disbelief. “Just because a woman doesn’t show romantic interest in John doesn’t mean she’s a lesbian.”

“Of course it does.”

“Not everyone’s in love with John,” Irene laughed.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Sherlock asked, his mind miles away. “Point is, nothing could happen between us. Nor do either of us want it to.”

“Clever you,” Irene said. “What do you propose we do, then?”

“There’s not much else to do but talk.”

“Boring.”

Sherlock smirked. “I feel much the same. You are of some interest to me, however.”

“Am I, now? Why?”

“Well, I’m to be stuck with you for the foreseeable future, aren’t I?” the prince countered. “Where are you and Mary headed?”

“We’re not headed anywhere for the time being,” Irene replied, “just as you and John are stuck here.”

“Where were you going before all this? Baskerville isn’t your home, but you were by the Moors when you were attacked. Why were you in the middle of nowhere with next to no supplies?”

“Can’t you figure it out?”

“I want to see what you’ll tell me.”

Irene smiled. “You’re a tricky one, William. We were going to Belgravia. We told you earlier.”

“Belgravia’s the opposite direction from here,” Sherlock argued, “and miles away. You can’t have been going to Belgravia. Where were you going?”

“We were headed home from Dartmoor.”

“What business did you have in Dartmoor?”

“What business is it of yours to know?”

“The business of curiosity,” the prince replied easily, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “Nothing more, I assure you.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“You’re right. I’m gathering information for only the most dastardly of purposes.”

Irene glared at Sherlock from across the room. The prince just smiled innocently back.

“Mary has family there.”

“Not you?”

“If I had family there, do you think I would have left them?” Irene snapped.

“To be fair, I don’t know you very well at all. We met yesterday.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Irene agreed. “What about you, then? Where were you and John headed?”

“Leinster,” Sherlock replied instantly, using the story he and John had agreed upon before John retired the night before. John hadn’t been one to labor over the details, so Sherlock took artistic liberty. “My sister’s very sick. John’s a doctor.”

“So you’ve said,” Irene replied, unconvinced. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I thought it was pneumonia. Then she began coughing up blood.”

“Your parents must be very worried.”

“My parents are away.”

“They left you alone with your ill sister? And then  _ you _ left her alone?”

“She fell ill after they’d gone. She’s in the care of one of our neighbors until I get back.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Eurus. Who did you visit in Belgravia?”

“Mary’s mother and aunts.”

“Not her father?”

“He died some time ago. Don’t change the subject. John’s going to treat Eurus, then? How old is she? Haven’t you got any doctors in Leinster?”

“She’s nine,” Sherlock replied. All lies were based in truth. “The doctors in Leinster proved to be no help.”

“You went all the way to Lauriston to bring a doctor back to Leinster?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He carefully noted that he’d never once mentioned Lauriston to Irene or Mary. John might have told them. Neither of them suspected they’d have to fabricate that bit of the story. It was an oversight on Sherlock’s part.

“No one else would listen to me,” he said. “She’s all I have left.”

Irene nodded disinterestedly. She knew he was lying. She hadn’t believed a word he’d said.

Why didn’t she confront him?

“I felt the same about Mary. You know, when my parents died,” Irene said truthfully. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. “Mary was the only person there for me.”

“How long have you been living with Mary, then?”

“Nine years?” Irene replied, frowning at herself. “No- Ten. It’s ten.”

“Ten years,” the prince mused. “I’ve only known John for about a month.”

“You act as if you’ve always known each other.”

Sherlock shrugged, and they fell into uncomfortable silence. Irene sighed and dropped her legs, lazing about with one arm tossed over her forehead. The prince studied the woman carefully, hoping to glean any sort of useful information from her unguarded position.

_ Liar. Orphan. Controlled - possibly love, could be familial ties. Conflicted. Good heart. Bad intentions. Secret tattoo. Animal lover. Not to be trusted.  _

Irene shifted on top of the sheets, wincing as her shoulder moved unexpectedly.

“Did you get a good look at the thing that bit you?” Sherlock blurted.

Irene looked at him in surprise. “Didn’t you see them? The hounds?”

“The ones that attacked John and I were full-grown.”

“Well, I imagine it looked much the same. Mary’s the one who saw it and fought it off. I was already down by that time. Didn’t have time to get a really good look at it.”

The prince shrugged again. He stared blankly at the wall behind Irene, considering the woman lying in bed across the room. Clever, impish, self-assured, and flirtatious, yet controlled so easily by a woman colder than the dead.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said finally. “Tell me about Mary.”

“What?”

“She’s not here to tell me about herself, is she? I imagine we’ll all be spending more time than I’d like together. I may as well know who you two are.”

Sherlock waited patiently for Irene to start talking. If he was right, he might have something interesting to report to John.

“She’s her own person,” Irene said, a soft laugh accompanying her words. “You know what I mean, right?”

“Not even remotely.”

The woman sighed. “Mary’s stubborn. She can be tough on people sometimes. She’s kind, though. Really kind.”

Sherlock nearly laughed in disbelief. “Is she?”

“It comes in bursts,” Irene defended. “She’s smarter than I could ever hope to be. I’d be lost without her. She doesn’t like when people don’t listen to her. And of course I never listen, so she always tells me off. She’s just very used to being listened to. She’s always been in charge. Of me, mostly.”

“It sounds as if you’re just repeating what she’s told you.”

Irene frowned deeply. Sherlock was certain that the brunette believed everything she said next to be true.

“I- Well, she’s very clever. We used to play chess, and she’d always win. She’s a terrible cook. She’s funny and thoughtful and bossy and mean, and she thinks about herself too much, and I…”

“You love her for it,” Sherlock offered, watching intently as the last of Irene’s resolve crumbled away. The woman refused to meet the prince’s eye, instead turning her gaze to the wall next to her.

“Yes,” she whispered. Sherlock had been right. “I love her for it.”

“She doesn’t even look at you twice.”

“She used to. She still does, sometimes. It’s worse than if she’d stopped altogether.”

“When’s the last time she complimented you?” Sherlock asked suddenly. “When’s the last time she didn’t shut you down?”

“Stop it.”

“When’s the last time you felt safe around her?”

“I said stop it!” Irene’s head snapped to Sherlock, and her heated eyes met his. Tears fell from her eyes and soaked the hair at her temples. “You don’t have to prove that you’re clever like this. You don’t have to do this. It’s… It’s hypocritical.”

“How so?”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to talk about love,  _ William. _ Your feelings for John are obvious. Plain as the nose on your face.”

Sherlock’s heart jumped to his throat. “You’re delusional. I’m not in love with John.”

“Yes you are!” Irene snapped. “I’ve seen the way you look at him, and the way your voice gets softer when you say his name. I know you were jealous of me when he treated my wounds, and of Mary when she spent so much time fawning over him, and I saw the look on your face when you realized he was already gone!”

“And that’s love to you?”

“Yes,” Irene insisted. “You look how I feel.”

“I don’t  _ do _ feelings,” Sherlock argued. “If you knew me, you’d know that.”

“I know more than you think.”

“Nonsense.”

“Don’t you deny it,” Irene snapped. “Don’t you dare! Not when you have a chance.”

“And you don’t?”

“Of course I don’t! Do something while  _ you _ still do. That chance doesn’t last forever.”

They were silent for a few moments before Sherlock spoke.

“You don’t deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Irene replied dispassionately. “You’re a real charmer.”

“The way Mary treats you, I mean. You don’t deserve it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Sherlock countered. “It’s emotional abuse. It’s not right.”

Irene pursed her lips and said no more.

Sherlock lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, his mind running wild with everything Irene had told him. He would pick out the best bits to tell John, leaving, of course, Irene’s insistent claims of love out of it. That didn’t require thinking over. Sherlock already knew that his feelings for John (He had to admit they existed.) were unlikely to be returned. Of course, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from testing the waters.

It was good timing when the knight entered the room not ten minutes later.

“John!”

~*~*~

John swung the door to his and Sherlock’s room open, carrying a few bottles full of salves and tonics to numb and heal. Sherlock was sprawled lazily on one bed, and Irene was curled up in the other, slow tears dripping down their face.

John ignored Sherlock’s joyful greeting and rushed to her side, his brow furrowed in concern. Mary stood next to him, her side pressed against his. He shifted away (subtly, he hoped) and took Irene’s hand in his own.

“Irene?” he asked softly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, sniffling and wiping her face with one hand.

“She’s just sensitive,” Mary said. She wiped Irene’s cheeks with a tissue, laughing quietly to herself. “You look like a frog when you cry.”

John frowned and opened his mouth to speak only to be cut off by the prince lying about behind him.

“We’ve both been in a considerable amount of pain for some time,” Sherlock defended. “You two were gallivanting around town, and we’ve been left here to wallow in our misery.  _ Must _ you add insult to injury, Mary?”

Mary huffed and sat heavily on the bed next to Irene as John opened a jar of salve. Irene shed her blanket and bared her shoulder. The knight offered the jar to Mary before settling in next to Sherlock.

“We really weren’t gone that long,” John said. He unwrapped the bandages around Sherlock’s leg and inspected the stitches there. “Have you been lazing about the whole time?”

“Irene and I aren’t in the best of moods,” Sherlock replied, wincing as John examined his wounds.

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” John laughed. “Do you think you’re in good enough a mood to take a walk around town with me later?”

Sherlock let out a groan. “There are people in town.”

“Yeah, but we don’t have to talk to many of them.”

“I suppose. Where are we going?”

“Oh, back to the shops. I didn’t want to dawdle when you and Irene needed medicine. It’s surprisingly hard to find this time of year. This’ll numb the pain,” John said. He scooped out some of the salve and rubbed it over Sherlock’s wounds. “You think people would stock up, but they never do, no matter how many times you suggest it.”

“Had a bit of a row with one of the merchants?”

“It’s just safer for everyone if there’s a surplus of medicine,” John defended, unable to keep the grin off his face. He let his hand linger on Sherlock’s calf, his thumb idly stroking the prince’s skin. “Once you get dressed, we’ll be off, then. It’ll only be a tick.”

John’s eyes followed the movement of Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed.

“All right,” the prince agreed.

Irene yelped, and John spun around to see what the hell was going on.

“Sit still, then!” Mary scolded, frowning at a grimacing Irene.

“You don’t have to press so hard,” the brunette argued. “Let me do it if you can’t.”

John silently took the salve from Mary and gently spread it over Irene’s shoulder. He smiled reassuringly and wrapped her wounds in bandages he’d bought not even an hour ago.

“You could have ripped her stitches,” the knight said, not meeting her eye. “It’s a good thing you didn’t.”

The room fell into uncomfortable silence as John worked, and as soon as he was done, he sent the women back to their room.

“Sherlock’s got to change, and then we’ll be out, anyway. Do you fancy meeting us at the pub for dinner?”

“Dinner?” Sherlock asked. “What time is it?”

“Five, maybe,” Irene replied. “You were asleep for a  _ very _ long time.”

“I told you to get more sleep,” John said, frowning.

“Dinner sounds wonderful, John,” Mary said, a pleasant smile on her face.

John sighed internally, forcing himself to grin back. “We’ll see you in, say, an hour?”

“That works for us,” Irene agreed. “See you then, boys. Don’t get into any trouble.”

“We’ll try,” John replied, and he shut the door with a long sigh.

“John?”

The knight turned to Sherlock, who stood on shaky legs in the middle of the room, a bundle of clothes clutched to his chest.

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking I might have a bath tonight. After dinner. I feel disgusting.”

“Oh, sure. I’ll ask the innkeepers if they’ve any soap, then, and maybe pop out for another walk while you’re doing that.”

Sherlock’s face turned a brilliant shade of red. He cleared his throat and said, “Well. I was thinking I might need your help. With the bath. My hands, and all.”

“Right, yes, your hands,” John repeated, feeling like an idiot. “I’ll try to heal them again tonight, if that’s all right with you. And your leg. Can’t have you hobbling off to defeat Moriarty with a bum leg.”

“I could make the leg work if it weren’t for the pain. The limp doesn’t bother me,” Sherlock assured. He held up his clothes. “I’m going to…”

“Oh! Right, sorry.”

John turned his back as the prince changed and startled when he felt long fingers on his bicep. Turning, he found himself staring into Sherlock’s eyes, their faces inches apart.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock said.

John’s heart stuttered, but he cursed it into submission.

“Yes. Right. Well, the shops barely had any medical supplies, but they  _ do _ carry enough armor to outfit a small village, so I thought we should look into it, maybe see if we could haggle the price down to something we can afford.”

“Oh, I can do that,” Sherlock replied, smiling. “This’ll be brilliant.”

Fifteen minutes later, John was watching helplessly as Sherlock tore a man’s life apart with his deductions. Strangely enough, John couldn’t scrounge up an ounce of pity for the merchant, who was cowering behind his desk.

“You’re currently in a relationship with a woman who is not your wife,” Sherlock pointed out. “She’s either pregnant, or your wife found out. Or both. Ooh, is it both?”

“No, no! My wife doesn’t know. She can’t! She must never know. It would kill her.”

“And you chose to do it anyway?” John demanded.

“So she  _ is _ pregnant!” Sherlock cried. “The mistress! Wonderful. She’s been pressuring you to leave your wife for some time, hasn’t she? You haven’t listened, probably because you need your wife’s money to support your shop while she’s away.”

“Away?” John asked. “Away where?”

“Afghanistan, John. His wife’s a soldier.”

“Oh, you bastard.”

“Soon to be promoted to knighthood, I imagine,” Sherlock added. “And your lover is currently unemployed and relying on you to siphon money from your business in order to care for her and her unborn child. Such is love, I suppose. Tedious.”

“I don’t- You won’t tell her. You- You can’t!” the man spluttered, his dark eyes wide with fear. “Anything in the shop, free. Anything you want. Just don’t tell her.”

“Anything I want?” Sherlock asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “You play a dangerous game, Victor.”

John frowned. “Free of charge? That’s a bit desperate, don’t you think?”

Two discounted sets of armor (cured leather - lightweight but still protective) and another quiver of arrows later, John led Sherlock out of the shop. He didn’t notice the magpie watching from overhead.

“His wife already knows,” the prince said. “It’s a small town, and I’m sure they have mutual friends. It’s not hard for word to spread.”

“Amazing!” John laughed. “You’re brilliant.”

A faint blush graced Sherlock’s cheeks. John wanted to kiss him, but that was a thought fit to be locked away in a little box somewhere very dark and secluded where no one would be able to find it - not John, and  _ especially _ not Sherlock. Not ever.

“It was simple, really,” Sherlock said. “If I told you how I did it, you’d think it ordinary.”

“Impossible.”

“You really think so.”

“Of course I do. How could I not?” John assured. He cleared his throat and tightened his grip around Sherlock’s waist. “We’ve got some time before we meet Mary and Irene at the pub. We should compare notes, I think.”

Sherlock perked up at that, and he spoke with such fervor that John had trouble following. His breath was visible in the cold winter air.

“Irene knows I’ve been lying even though I stuck to our story. She saw through most of it but didn’t question me about it at all, and she’s in love with Mary. Mary probably knows. No, no, she definitely knows. She’s got a tattoo, but I don’t know where, and I don’t know what, or if it’s even important. I think, with the proper getting-to-know-you and all that, we need not be so guarded around her. Different circumstances, perhaps.”

“Interesting. All very interesting. I think we should leave as soon as possible.”

“What? Why?”

“We really can’t trust them,” John said. “It’s too orchestrated. They knew where we were, what we were doing, how we’d stop to help them. They know too much about us.”

“Mary gave too much away?”

“That,” John said, “and intuition.”

Sherlock didn’t look impressed. “Intuition,” he replied, his voice dull.

John thought of the sour, twisted feeling in his stomach that hadn’t quite left since he reunited with Sherlock. Spending so much time with Mary only made the knight more worried about Sherlock than before; the woman hadn’t been able to talk about anything other than the prince the entirety of their time together. Besides that, she had obviously been trying to get on John’s good side, which apparently meant complimenting him every other sentence and continuously touching his arm.

“Yes. Intuition. That bad feeling in your gut when something’s not right.”

“So you’ve no hard evidence?”

“I- She laughed at everything I said. Everything, Sherlock. I’m not funny.”

“You are.”

“What?”

“You’re funny sometimes,” Sherlock said. “Like when you said you’d butter Mary. That was funny.”

“That was only funny because you had no idea what I was talking about.”

“It was still funny.”

“Sherlock! That’s not the point. We can’t trust Mary or Irene. She was too interested in you, and she barely offered any information about either of them, and she avoided all my questions. She’s trying to distract me from you. It’s not right. We’re not safe if they’re nearby.” John lowered his voice. “What if Moriarty sent them here like he sent Molly?”

Sherlock nodded tightly, his body tense against John’s.

“We’ll only know for sure if one of them slips up,” he said. “I can deduce them, but that only tells me so much.”

“I don’t think they’ll do that anytime soon. They’re clever. Not as clever as you, but… I really think we should get out of here before they do something that gets us killed.”

“When?” Sherlock asked, and John wanted to kiss the prince for believing him even though he sounded absolutely mad. (He really had to stop thinking about kissing Sherlock. It was getting to a point where it was not only unhelpful but unwise to do so. What would Sherlock think if he ever found out?)

“We’ve got twenty minutes until the hour is up,” John said, “and another ten or fifteen until they figure out we’re not just late.”

“You want to leave now?”

“They won’t catch up to us if we’ve got a half hour head start and walk through the night,” John insisted. “I’ll even try to heal your leg before we go so we can move faster.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded. John let out a sigh of relief.

“Good. That’s fantastic.”

“You go to the inn and get our things,” Sherlock said. “I’ll stay here and make excuses if I see them.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone,” John refused. “Don’t even think about it.”

They set off for the inn together, lumbering along with their armor and their injuries.

John froze in his tracks as he heard it. Every hair on his body stood on end, and his heart beat wildly against his chest. His hands (steady steady steady, always steady when he had to fight) clenched into tight fists. The sound came again, and he cursed himself for being so damned  _ stupid. _

A magpie’s frantic call pierced the air, and as it flew overhead, John was sure it favored one of its wings.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, his heart sinking, “you said Irene had a secret tattoo, yeah?”

“I did. Why? John?”

“I think I might know what it is.”

Sherlock’s eyes searched his. “John? What is it? What haven’t you told me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sherlock. This is… It’s my fault.”

“Nonsense. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Familiars,” John said quietly. “I should have told you so long ago.”

“And Irene… Oh. That’s how she knew… everything. But what about Mary?”

“I’d rather not find out,” John said. “We need to leave. Now.”

Sherlock nodded, and they rushed to the inn to gather their supplies. John grabbed the salves and tonics he’d bought that morning and shoved him in any bag with space in it. He shouldered his bow and his quiver over their bags, the leather straps snug over his chest. Sherlock had loaded bags onto his own shoulders and had leaned against the wall, slightly breathless. John wordlessly offered him his longsword, and Sherlock took it gratefully, buckling the sheath around his waist with his good hand. The knight took a steadying breath and closed his eyes.

“John?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, smiling reassuringly. “Are you ready?”

“As ever.”

John carefully placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, thumb idly stroking his collarbone, willing Magic to heal his wounds, mental and physical. He wished the best for Sherlock, and he was sure Magic could sense the depth and complexity of his feelings for the prince - admiration and protectiveness, shame and self-loathing all wrapped up into neat pile of shit that defined John Watson.

Sherlock gasped as Magic entered his body, (apparently) burning its way to his wounds and sealing them shut. When it was done, when Magic stopped using his body as its own, he opened his eyes to be greeted with a very flushed, panting Sherlock. John needed to stop thinking about kissing him.

“What a show!”

The pair whipped around to see Mary standing in their doorway, a wicked grin stretching her lips. Gone was the modest dress she’d wore to meet them; in its place was a long, tiger-skin cloak draped over her body. A magpie John could only assume was Irene sat perched on her shoulder. Her hands rested carefully on her hips, revealing the dagger in the sheath around her waist. Magic danced around John protectively, the hum of it in his ears almost drowning out Mary’s smug voice.

“You know, when Irene told me you were leaving, I’ll admit I was a bit disappointed. I thought I’d miss my chance to see your Magic. It pales in comparison.” She laughed when John raised his spare dagger, aiming it at her heart. “Oh, John, you won’t kill me here.”

“And how do you know that, Mary? If that  _ is _ your real name.”

“It is my real name.”

“It is.”

“Well, that’s hardly the point, Sherlock.”

“Mary Moran. Maybe one day you’ll understand why that name should scare you,” Mary said, not looking particularly concerned about the weapon pointed at her. “But maybe not. I’m going to kill you in a few minutes, so I doubt you’ll get the chance.”

“That’s not going to happen,” John growled.

Mary continued as if John hadn’t even spoken.

“He’s been watching you, you know. And where he goes, I go. Unless he’s got something fun set aside for me, of course. And this has been  _ so _ much fun.”

“I’ve had a great time,” Sherlock piped up. “But we really should be going. If the ‘he’ you speak of is the one I’m thinking, we’ll meet again soon enough.”

“Oh, Sherlock. I can’t let you leave. I’m sorry. I truly am.”

“Don’t touch him.”

“John, love, you won’t kill me here,” Mary repeated. “Where would you put my body? You wouldn’t just leave me here in the innkeepers to find in the morning, would you? Oh, but you did leave the familiars in the forest.

The knight grit his teeth. “Stop it.”

“John? What is she talking about?”

“Didn’t you tell him, John?” Mary asked. She turned to Sherlock, smirking. “He killed my friends.”

“You’re emotionally incapable of creating or maintaining meaningful relationships,” Sherlock said plainly.

“They attacked me,” John defended, and Mary laughed.

“Do you think I care about that?” she asked. She put one hand on the hilt of her dagger and raised the other in the air between them, fingers clenched tightly into a fist. John doubled over as an invisible force sucker punched him in the stomach. Distantly, he felt Sherlock’s hands on him and Mary’s voice around him. “He wanted me to spy on you. Just to  _ watch. _ Get closer than Irene could do. I convinced him to let me kill you. Less work for him.”

“Less  _ fun _ for him,” Sherlock countered, drawing his sword. “Stop it. Whatever you’re doing to John- stop it!”

The knight groaned as pain travelled through his body. It was fire in his veins and ice water on his skin and chaos in his mind as he was brought back to Afghanistan, war and blood and sand and heat and death all around him. Sherlock’s voice anchored him, kept him from losing his mind completely.

“John! You have to get up, John.”

He pleaded silently with Magic to help him, to heal him, to get him back to Sherlock, but he received no answer.

For the first time in John’s life, Magic was gone, and he was alone.

Empty and confused, he met Mary’s eye. Magic floated in the palm of her hand, white and red and black tendrils writhing and wrapping around her fingers. Huh. He had never really  _ seen _ it before.

Mary cocked her head. “Seems like that took a lot out of you. Sherlock, dear, I’m sorry to say your knight doesn’t have much stamina. But at least he has a  _ wonderful _ personality.”

Magic tossed John across the room as easily as John might swat a fly. The knight slammed into the armoire and fell to his knees, holding himself up on shaky elbows. Swords clashed across the room. Sherlock and Mary battled fiercely for only a few moments before Magic’s snake-like tendrils wrapped around Sherlock’s legs, and he fell backwards, striking his head against the wooden floorboards. John winced at the impact and watched in horror as Mary’s dagger sunk into Sherlock’s chest.

A guttural cry tore itself from John’s throat, and, blinking tears from his eyes, he retrieved his sword from beside Sherlock’s fallen body. The knight spared no time to mourn before he lunged at Mary, landing a sloppy blow to her side. It was less of a hindrance and more of an annoyance, but it was a blow nonetheless, and John let that small victory fuel him.

Their swords sang as metal crashed against metal. Magic tried to wrap itself around John’s arms and legs but dissolved as he inflicted blow after blow upon the woman controlling it. It didn’t take long for John to disarm Mary, her dagger falling to the floor with a dull thud. He advanced upon her until her back hit their writing desk, her hands grasping the edge until her fingers turned white. Blood stained Mary’s clothes where John’s blade had managed to slice or stab, and he suspected that, without treatment, some of the wounds would prove fatal (be it from blood loss, organ failure, or infection).

The knight’s sword rested perilously at her throat. John was sweating and bleeding and holding Mary’s life in his hands, and she was afraid. He could see it so clearly in her wide blue eyes, and John  _ relished _ the sight, and it was absolutely sick of him, but he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like a madman when he saw that flicker of dread behind her cold features. 

John drew his arm back to land the final blow when a frantic voice called out to him.

“He’s breathing! John, he’s alive! Sherlock-”

Irene (who wore only a blanket wrapped around herself) knelt over the prince’s limp body, her hands all over him. She had barely gotten a word out before John rushed to Sherlock’s side. Relief couldn’t describe John’s feelings when he found the prince’s pulse, faint but steady. The weight of a thousand worlds was lifted from his shoulders even as he examined the wound in Sherlock’s chest. It was deep and nasty-looking and dangerously close to a lung, but it was nothing John hadn’t seen before.

Irene gasped as Magic draped itself over John, a red and white and black blanket slowly suffocating him. He clenched his eyes shut as it soaked into his skin, leaving his whole body feeling warm and fuzzy. Magic buzzed and whined affectionately in his ears, and John thought it almost sounded like an apology. He cast a hurried glance behind him, and what he saw there made his blood boil.

Mary was gone. John should’ve killed her when he had the chance.

He should’ve done a lot of things, really.

“Put pressure on the wound,” John commanded, and blood welled up between Irene’s pale fingers. “Harder. We have to stop him bleeding.”

Irene nodded and obeyed without hesitation.

“You can heal him?” she asked hopefully. “He’ll be all right?”

“He should be fine. I just have to do a few things before Magic takes over,” John replied. He turned to Sherlock, whose shallow breaths were ragged and quick. “Sherlock, can you hear me? I need you to hold on. Tell me you can hear me.”

The prince let out a feeble groan, so quiet John had to strain to hear it. He shooed Irene away from the wound and saturated a pad of gauze with alcohol.

“All right, Sherlock. I have to clean it, and you know how that goes.”

Sherlock hardly made a sound as John cleaned his wound, and a soft grimace was his only movement. John was sure the alcohol had to have burned like hell, but the prince barely reacted. He threaded a needle and began to stitch Sherlock’s wound shut. The sun sank beneath the horizon, and Irene stood over John with a candle to grant him light as he worked.

“Come on, Sherlock. You’re gonna get through this,” John murmured. “I’ll patch you up right as rain, and we’ll be off to London by morning. You just have to get through this. That’s all you have to do. Just get through this, and we’ll be on our way.”

The stitches were finished in no time, and all that was left was Magic.

Magic had always been a last resort, the final step before John was pulled from his patients, fighting and screaming and shouting  _ “I can save them!” _ before he was shoved in front of another poor soul in need of medical attention. John could mend and stitch and cauterize like any other human doctor, could pull a man from the brink of death like no other, but only Magic could snatch a spirit from oblivion and put it back in a worldly body.

John had hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“John?”

The knight’s heart leapt even as his mind told him it was only Irene who had spoken. Guilt planted itself in his heart as he corrected himself. She wasn’t  _ only _ Irene anymore than Sherlock was  _ only _ Sherlock. But of course, Irene was one of the women sent to spy on and kill him and Sherlock. Not to forget that she was now helping John save the prince’s life. It was a very complicated issue, and John chose not to dwell on it any further since there really were more important things that needed his attention.

Ever the wordsmith, John eloquently replied, “What?”

“Do you need help?”

“No. Just stay where you are.”

Irene nodded, and John gently placed his hands over Sherlock’s wound. He pleaded silently with Magic to heal the prince, and it flowed from his fingers and soaked into Sherlock’s skin. There was not a sound in the room. Even Sherlock’s breathing had quieted, and his pulse was almost nonexistent. His face was a deadly shade of white, and it made John sick.

“Come on, Sherlock, come on,” he muttered, pressing harder. “You have to help him. You have to save him. He can’t  _ die. _ You can’t die, Sherlock. Do you hear me? You can’t  _ die.” _

Pulse after pulse of Magic swept through John and into Sherlock, but the prince remained still. Hot tears dripped down John’s face as he pleaded with Magic, his words becoming more and more incoherent.

“Please, God, just heal him, just bring him back,” he implored, his voice cracked and broken. “Sherlock, please, just wake up. You can’t leave me alone. Wake up!”

John cupped Sherlock’s face with a trembling hand, tracing his sharp cheekbones, before deflating completely. He rested his forehead on Sherlock’s chest, right over his heart.

“I’m begging you,” he whispered. “Please just let him wake up.”

The chest beneath John jumped as Sherlock coughed violently, gasping for breath as if he’d been drowning. His shaking hands fluttered about his torso, resting finally on his newest wound. John bolted upright and swatted his hands away.

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and began writhing on the floor.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? What is it?”

“John,” the prince choked out, gripping John’s bicep with deceptively strong fingers. His teeth were bared in an animalistic snarl, spittle gathering at the corners. “Magic  _ burns.” _

John let his mouth fall open as he imagined what it must feel like: Magic surging through his body, quite literally leaving a trail of fire behind itself, searing his wounds shut, injecting life back into him. Some of it didn’t seem too unfamiliar.

“I know, I’m sorry, I had to ask,” John replied. He put his weight on Sherlock’s shoulders (mainly to keep him from hurting himself but also to reassure himself of the prince’s wellbeing). “You’ll be all right. We’ll be all right.”

Finally, Sherlock went still. Glassy blue eyes gazed at nothing in particular as the prince caught his breath.

“John,” he gasped eventually, “she  _ stabbed _ me!”

The knight laughed and gathered Sherlock into his arms, hugging him tightly. He wrapped his arms around the prince’s dainty waist and tucked his head in Sherlock’s neck, not quite ready to face the world outside. John could feel bruises forming where Sherlock’s fingers dug into his back and (good) shoulder. He never wanted to let go.

Sherlock pulled away first, and John carefully avoided his observant gaze. He turned his head to the floor and wiped the tears from his eyes. There was a part of him that worried his feelings might become obvious to the prince, and a part of him worried his  _ anxiety _ over it might become obvious, and so on.

“I'm all right, John.”

He turned back to see Sherlock grinning softly. The prince grabbed John’s shoulders and brought him closer, leaving a small, sweet kiss on the corner of John’s mouth. John was frozen in place, trying to process exactly what had just happened when Sherlock's voice shook him out of his thoughts.

“John?”

“I thought you were dead,” the knight croaked, resting his forehead on Sherlock's. He gripped the prince's shoulders tightly. “What would I do if you were  _ dead?” _

“I’m here, John. Not dead. We're all right.”

Before John could reply, Sherlock pulled him down and pressed their lips together. The world melted away as their lips moved in perfect tandem, and John found he could only focus on the feel of Sherlock’s body so close to his. Even Magic fell silent.

The kiss was chaste and sweet, and John was going to die. Even as he threaded his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, white hot shame pooled in his belly. He pushed it all down into a neat little box and decided not to think of it just then. Instead, he kissed Sherlock with all the enthusiasm he could muster. He didn’t know how long this might last.

~*~*~

Magic is not a thing to be controlled. 

If you’re cruel enough, it can be captured.

But Magic remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've upped the posting speed because I really need to get in gear and finish this.
> 
> An update on the scholarship I mentioned months ago, if anyone cares to know: I did not place, but I was a finalist.
> 
> Please leave a kudos or a comment if you liked this chapter. It would make my day, and it helps motivate me :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited at all!  
> Enjoy!

Irene stood in the corner of the room, her back ramrod straight. John and Sherlock were still on the floor, though neither of them seemed to notice or care. She couldn’t blame them. She would wait until they composed themselves, and they would decide her fate.

She stared out the window, her mind wandering towards the inevitable. John and Sherlock would not harm her unless she threatened them, so they would turn her away. Then she would feel Moriarty’s siren song calling her back to him, urging her to return to her master. She could only imagine what he’d do to her once he got his greedy hands on her again.

In sparing Irene’s life, they would surely kill her.

Perhaps Irene was unlucky to be caught up with kind men.

It had been years since she had seen kindness.

There came the sound of shuffling and muffled laughter, and Irene tensed.

“We do have other things to do,” John said, his voice soft.

“Pity.”

Another laugh. “You madman, We’re in all sorts of shit right now, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“Mary just tried to kill both of us,” John replied. Irene cracked her knuckles. “And Irene’s still here.”

“Irene?”

The woman turned as Sherlock called her name, and they locked eyes.

“I understand if you don’t want me here,” she said plainly, determined not to let her fear bleed through. She had a feeling the prince would notice it anyway.

“Nonsense,” he replied instantly. “What changed?”

Irene swallowed. “I thought about what you said. You were right.”

“Of course I was right. You didn’t do too bad yourself.”

“Obviously.”

The prince cast her a small smile before looking at John. “Help me up, will you?”

The knight shook his head and helped Sherlock move to the bed farthest from Irene. John knight turned to her, and she took a reflexive step back.

Logically, Irene knew John wouldn’t harm her, but every time he looked at her, Irene only saw the cold anger and intensity she’d seen the first time she crossed paths with the knight. She heard the cries of her brother and sisters as their lives were taken from them.

Irene couldn’t blame John for that, could she? It was always kill or be killed, and they had tried to kill John first. Irene had been the one lucky enough to escape with her life.

Unlucky, maybe.

John cleared his throat. Irene waited.

“So you’re… not gonna try to kill us?”

Irene balked, confusion plain on her features.

“No,” she said. “That was Mary’s plan, not mine.”

“What was _your_ plan?”

“Listen to Mary. But she’s gone now.”

“She is.”

They stared at each other for a long time, neither one moving even an inch. It was Irene who finally broke the silence.

“You’re too kind to kill me,” she noted. “I’ll take my leave of you both. Goodbye, and good luck.”

Both Sherlock and John started towards her, but, with Sherlock being confined to the bed, only John was able to grab her arm. She recoiled as if burned by fire, tearing herself away from John’s grip and staring at him with wide eyes, her blanket pulled tightly around her frame.

“Ah, I’m… sorry. We can’t let you leave.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Why would you want to?”

Irene frowned, her eyes flicking from one man to the other.

“Why would I stay?” she questioned. A guilty look passed over John’s face, and Irene sighed. “You don’t trust me. Don’t worry, John. I don’t blame you.”

“I… I wish I could say it wasn’t that,” John replied.  “Stay with us tonight. I could heal you.”

“Your Magic won’t work on me.”

“You think?”

“I’m held together by Moriarty’s Magic. Yours might tear me apart.”

John frowned, but he pointed towards the empty bed.

“You can sleep there tonight. We won’t try to kill each other. In the morning we’ll get packed and go our separate ways. Sound like a deal?”

Irene nodded slowly as Sherlock let out a long, put-out sigh.

“Well, thank God that’s all over,” he declared, pushing himself to his feet. “We have to track Mary. She’ll lead us straight to Moriarty with none of the pesky finding our way through London business.”

Just then, Sherlock’s legs gave out, and he landed back on the bed with a displeased huff.

“We’re not tracking anyone tonight,” John said. “We’re all going to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll explore our options.” Sherlock pouted, and John shook his head. “You’ll wear yourself out if you don’t rest.”

The prince mumbled a loath agreement, and the three of them settled into bed. Irene burrowed under her blankets, making sure to face the other bed. It seemed that John had the same idea. The knight was curled around Sherlock possessively, and he observed her from over the prince's head of unruly curls. They stared at each other wordlessly, unblinking, daring the other to close their eyes first.

Irene knew it was a fight she wouldn't win. She sighed softly and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the heat of John's gaze.

As John and Sherlock slept, Irene lay motionlessly for a few hours, her stomach gnawing at itself in hunger. They'd never actually gotten supper. It hadn't seemed important then, but now she needed something in her stomach to get her back to London, back to her master.

Carefully (as to not wake John or the prince), Irene shed her blankets and tiptoed to the open window. She rested her hands on the windowsill, the wood rough on her thin fingers. She allowed herself one last look at the men behind her before she left them for good.

John's arms encircled Sherlock, keeping him close to the blond's chest. His nose was buried in Sherlock's curls, and he snored softly. Their legs were most likely tangled together under the covers. Sherlock lay with his back to the knight, and their entwined hands rested on the mattress in front of him.

Sherlock's eyes were wide open, and he stared at Irene as if seeing her for the first time. The woman swallowed nervously, wishing she had something - anything - to say.

"Irene?" he whispered.

"Sherlock?

"You're leaving," he said, his voice dull. "You don't have to."

"I do."

"You can fight him."

Irene said nothing, her hands shaking.

"We can fight him. Together. We'll do it together. The three of us."

"No," Irene replied. "The two of you... I don't want to get in the way of that."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, his brows knit closely together. "At least let John change your bandages before you go."

"I can take care of it myself."

"I know. But you could stay with us. You could help us. You could have a place here."

Irene shook her head. "You offer something I can't accept."

"I know."

"I'll see you again, Sherlock Holmes."

He smiled. "I know."

Slowly, Irene turned away. She did not want to see his face when she transformed.

The bird perched on the windowsill, preparing to take off. It flapped its wings once, still adjusting to its lameness.

Just before it took off, it heard a hushed, awed voice mutter, "Fascinating!"

As the bird soared through the dark night sky, it let out a single mournful call.

~*~*~

Morning came, and Sherlock woke up in John's arms. Of course, he'd been waking up in John's arms for almost a month, now. This awakening was no different than the others. He was still a little tired, there was a crick in his neck, and he was sort of sweaty. Body heat would do that to a person. John lay next to him, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. John was softer when he slept. He worried every moment he was awake. Sherlock was surprised the other man didn't worry in his sleep.

It was just like any other day, but that wasn't right. It should be different. Sherlock had almost died last night. He had also kissed John. And John had kissed him back. They had kissed quite a bit, actually. That had been nice. _Very_ nice. Maybe John would let Sherlock kiss him whenever he wanted.

Sherlock shifted, and his eye caught on the empty bed on the other side of the room. His heart grew heavy at the sight, and he frowned deeply. John wouldn't be happy either, but for different reasons.

Irene had every reason to turn against them, the main being that she was never on their side to begin with. She had stood on a shaky middle ground for some time, but Sherlock wasn't sure if that was enough for John. It was surely enough for him. When the middle ground crumbled, and Irene needed somewhere to turn, Mary wouldn't be there to catch her. _Sherlock_ would be there, John right along with him (however reluctantly).

John woke up slowly. His arms tightened around Sherlock as he came to, slowly blinking sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock turned to him and smiled.

"Hello," he said quietly, his eyes roaming over John's unguarded features.

"Morning," John mumbled, stretching his good arm over his head. "How's your leg?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied.

John raised an eyebrow. "Really? I find that hard to believe. And how are you feeling? You know, after yesterday?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know what you mean. We knew Mary was... off. I knew Irene wouldn't stay with her for long. None of what happened yesterday was really a surprise, John."

"Mary almost killed you."

"Oh, that. No, I hadn't predicted that."

"So, how are you feeling?"

"Oh! I feel fine. Your Magic always burns, but after it's done, nothing else hurts. I think it even healed my hand,” Sherlock replied. “Irene’s gone.”

John’s eyes widened, and he bolted out of bed, climbing over Sherlock in the process. The prince frowned. No good morning kiss?

“Why didn’t you wake me up when you noticed?”

Sherlock shrugged. “She helped you, didn’t she? When I was mostly dead, I mean.”

John pursed his lips. “She did.”

“I thought so,” Sherlock said, nodding slowly. “Let her go, John.”

“She could-”

“She won’t.”

“And how do you know that?” John demanded. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and the tension in the knight’s body melted away. “Because you’re brilliant, I suppose.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, that’s it.”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s… Let’s get something to eat and head to London. Shouldn’t be more than a two days’ walk now.”

“Two days?”

John nodded, already beginning to pack their bags.

“How’s your leg?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt.”

The knight set his medical kit on the bed next to Sherlock and took the prince’s hand in his own. Sherlock’s breath hitched, and he licked his lips in anticipation. But John only unwrapped his bandages, manipulating Sherlock’s hand this way and that to examine it.

“Does any of this hurt?” John asked, his brows furrowed. Sherlock shook his head, and John continued, “It looks like it’s healed. This hand’ll be weak for a while, though. I don’t think Magic takes care of physical therapy. Don’t… I dunno. Don’t try to fell a tree with your bare hands or anything.”

“There you go,” Sherlock encouraged. “That was funny.”

John rolled his eyes. “Get dressed, would you? I’m starving.”

In no time, the pair of them were making their way to the tavern, each of them limping along with their bum legs, their breath visible in the crisp winter air. The sun was high in the sky, not quite noon but not long before it. The town was quiet, its people somber as they meandered from building to building. But the children - they laughed and played and shouted and made believe, dashing through the streets, happy screams carried off by the wind. Sherlock envied them and their carelessness. His mind and body were eighteen, his country and family stuck fifty years in the past. He was a man out of his time, and barely a man at that. The children they passed only knew Sherlock from the bedtime stories their parents told.

John paused, and Sherlock turned to him.

“Do you hear that?” John asked, his head cocked to one side.

Sherlock frowned, and the two of them stood silently in the middle of the street.

“There,” John said suddenly. “Right there. Do you hear it?”

“Yes. It sounds like…”

“Someone’s crying,” John finished.

Children shouted over them.

“That’s not right.”

“No,” John agreed. “No, it’s not. Do you want to go take a look?”

Sherlock nearly vibrated out of his skin. “Don’t you?”

The knight grinned. Sherlock could kiss him. It was an interesting thought, and one that would definitely be reexamined later.

They found the child only a block away, sobbing messily while a little boy (joined by two friends) dangled a cloth doll in front of her face. John’s body slowly relaxed as he took in the scene. Sherlock watched in fascination as John stomped over to the little boy and demanded he return the doll. The girl stopped her crying once she got her hands back on her toy, and John quickly turned to the boys.

“I didn’t think boys your age would be childish enough to steal someone’s things,” John said very plainly. “Why did you think it was a good idea? Did you think you wouldn’t get caught?”

As John berated the young thieves, Sherlock comforted the girl.

“There’s no need for tears,” he said. “Do you have a handkerchief? Can you wipe your face?”

The little girl nodded, her dark eyes wide. She pulled a floral square of fabric out of her pocket and shyly offered it to Sherlock. The prince took it graciously and gently wiped the tears from her face. The girl smiled brightly, hugged Sherlock, and scampered away.

Sherlock blinked a few times, surprised at the outburst of affection. He turned to John, who stared at him as if he’d grown another head. Two of the boys took their chance to escape; the other, frozen in place by fear, stood completely still, his eyes flicking between Sherlock and John.

John shook his head and turned back to the little boy.

“So, why’d you steal her doll, then?”

The little boy frowned. “Because she’s a dumb girl and I’m a boy and that’s what we do!”

Sherlock scoffed. “It’s because you fancy her, don’t you?”

The boy’s eyes widened, and he shook his head furiously.

“No! I don’t fancy her at all! She’s not even the prettiest girl in Baskerville.”

John’s lips curved into a knowing smile.

“Right. You don’t fancy her. I get it. If you _did_ fancy her, I’d tell you to wait until it got a bit warmer, try giving her some flowers and a very good apology. Flowers usually work on girls. They work on boys, too, if I’m being honest. Anyway! You said you don’t fancy her, so you definitely won’t need that advice. I am gonna tell you to stop picking on her or any other people, though, and then my friend and I will be on our way. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yes,” the boy replied sheepishly.

“That’s good,” John agreed. “You should probably be getting home.”

“It’s not even noon!”

“You mustn’t be late for lunch,” Sherlock pointed out.

The boy seemed to agree, for he took off running faster than John or Sherlock could say another word. John laughed softly at the retreating figure before turning to Sherlock, a wondrous look on his face.

“You’re good with kids,” he accused. “You _like_ them.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, affronted. “I had a little brother. I know how to behave around children.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t he… like you?”

_“Like me?”_

“Yeah. You know what I mean. With those deductions and logic and all that.”

“Yes, he was, a bit. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing!” John cried. “Absolutely nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that most kids are sort of dumb.”

“Most children are far more intelligent than their elders believe,” Sherlock replied plainly. “Their unflinching honesty is written off as rudeness, and their curiosity as trouble-making.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Then I guess I was a pretty dumb kid.”

“I’m sure you were a very perceptive child, John. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

The knight shot Sherlock a lopsided smile, and they headed off to the pub for breakfast.

 _John’s good with kids,_ Sherlock noted happily. It was a bittersweet thought. _Sherrinford would have loved him._

If Sherlock was a little morose over breakfast, John didn’t push him, and the prince was grateful.

~*~*~

The two-day trip to London (not Central London, where Sherlock’s home was, but the country itself) was fairly uneventful, filled with talking and laughing and joking and arguing and kissing (not much, but enough to note).

John had nearly jumped out of his skin when he woke to see Sherlock’s face barely an inch from his own. The prince had smiled devilishly and pressed their mouths together, greeting John with a sweet, lengthy kiss. His fingers, which started out on John’s shoulder, migrated to his neck and carded through his hair. John, who still wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to touch the prince, kept his hands in very modest places (like on Sherlock’s neck or maybe tracing a sharp cheekbone with his thumb).

Apparently, Sherlock liked kissing. He liked kissing a great deal. John couldn’t complain.

Well, he _could,_ but he preferred not to think about his hesitations too much. He could barely ignore the shame burning in his belly whenever he kissed Sherlock or even thought of him affectionately, and his heart grew heavy when he acknowledged the very real possibility that Sherlock would get tired of him after London was restored and send him back to Lauriston. John’s heart, of course, would stay in Central London with Sherlock, were it would gather dust on some abandoned shelf in the prince’s study or, if he was lucky, be used as a paperweight.

John could’ve scoffed at his own dramatics. Instead, he’d gently pushed Sherlock off him and reminded him to do those exercises to strengthen the muscles in his hands.

Sherlock had pouted but agreed nonetheless, and they’d finally set off for London.

Now, hours later, they stood at the edge of Northumberland, London within spitting distance.

“We don’t have a plan,” John said plainly.

“Of course we have a plan,” the prince replied, staring straight ahead. “Get into the castle and kill Moriarty.”

John turned to Sherlock, his brows knit together.

“And that’s it? No strategy, no backup plans, no precautions?”

“We don’t need those,” Sherlock replied. “It’s just the two of us. I know my way around the castle, John. It’s my home. We needn’t worry about making our way to Moriarty. He won’t kill me straight away.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. It wouldn’t be a challenge. This is all meant to be fun for him. It’s a game.”

“A game.”

“Oh, don’t sound so disappointed in me, John. I never said _I_ was going to have fun with all this.”

John only hummed in response.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get to Central London, then?”

“Unlikely to be heavy traffic due to the weather and general despondency of the kingdom,” Sherlock replied absently, “and taking into account that we might acquire horses sometime in the next day or two, I’d wager anywhere from two to five days.”

“Five days,” John breathed, hanging his head. “Let’s hope someone’s around to feed us. Otherwise, we’ll have to stretch our rations a few extra days, and you eat too little as it is.”

“I’m really fine,” Sherlock replied. “My body is merely transport.”

“Yeah, and you’re supposed to _care_ for transport,” John replied. “You don’t run horses into the ground because you think the wagon is more important. How else would the wagon get where it needs to be?”

Sherlock frowned, and John waited patiently for his response.

“I think you just want to sound clever.”

“I want to- _I_ want to sound clever? Sherlock! Pot and kettle!”

The prince rolled his eyes. “There’s a difference, John. I _am_ clever. You _sound_ clever.”

John set his jaw, and Sherlock hastened to apologize.

“Not that you aren’t clever sometimes, John. You’re very clever, in an ordinary sort of way. That sounded cruel. I only mean that compared to a mind like mine, yours-”

“Sherlock. Stop,” John ordered, an amused smile on his face. “You’re fine. Believe me. Just stop talking.”

The prince seemed to relax at John’s words.

“We should go,” he said before dropping a chaste kiss on John’s cheek. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

Even as the sun set, the pair travelled through the kingdom of London. Old, snow-covered dirt roads led them from the forest and into the vast emptiness of farmland. Sherlock tensed as they emerged from the cover of the trees, and John debated taking his hand.

Ultimately, the knight decided against it. He would take was he was given, but he wouldn’t risk asking for more. He couldn’t lose Sherlock now, not when their time together was drawing to its inevitable close.

John frowned at himself, wondered when he’d become so gloomy, turned to Sherlock, and asked, “You all right?”

The prince’s face gave away no emotion when he replied, “Just fine, John. Nothing to worry about.”

“That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. It’s not as if we’re friends or anything.”

“Friends,” Sherlock repeated. He spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

It was possible that John had just made a very grave mistake.

“I- What-”

 _How articulate_ , he thought.

“I don’t have _friends.”_

John clenched his fists and closed his eyes and thanked his lucky stars for the change in conversation.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” he asked, smiling softly at the prince.

“Of course I do. What are you going on about?”

“You have friends,” John replied easily. “Soo Lin and Sarah? And you’ve always got me.”

Sherlock’s icy expression melted into something soft, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Yes. I’ve always got you.”

John felt his face burn, even though Sherlock was only parroting John’s words back to him. His ears and cheeks were surely bright red, and he could only hope that Sherlock would attribute his change in complexion to the exposure to cold air.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Sherlock sighed. “In the forest, I know Mycroft’s nearby. He can’t stay out of sight in farmland.”

“So you’re worried he won’t be able to come to our rescue?” John asked. “That’s all fine. You want to keep an eye on him. All siblings do that.”

The prince frowned. “No, no that’s not it. I’m not waiting for him to rescue me. He’s never needed to rescue me. I just wonder about him, is all.”

John nodded. “Sure. Still fine.”

Sherlock cast him a sideways glance and said no more about the subject.

The pair of them walked in comfortable silence for another hour. John wondered if they should set up camp for the night, but Sherlock showed no intention of slowing down or stopping. Diligently, the prince walked on, even as John lagged behind him.

Under their feet, the dirt road turned to cobblestone, and the snow slowly thinned until it was no more. Grey stone buildings rose up like trees on either side of them, their windows dark and doors shut tight. There was no movement from any house, street, or back alley as John and Sherlock wandered the town, their shoes making hollow sounds against the cobblestone roads.

“We’re in New Scotland,” Sherlock noted. John raised an eyebrow. “What? You didn’t memorize the map?”

“No, but of course _you_ did,” John laughed. “New Scotland. That’s not far from Central London, is it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “There’s a town or two between. Cities. More farmland. There has to be a stable somewhere.”

“We don’t have any money.”

“We only need money if someone sees us.”

“Sherlock! We can’t steal someone’s horses!”

“Why not, if we need them more?”

“You may be used to getting whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean you can take things that belong to other people.”

“Used to getting what I want?”

“You being a prince, and all,” John replied.

“You don’t have to _explain_ the concept of stealing, John. And I’ll have you know, while Mummy and Father may have indulged Sherrinford, Mycroft and I rarely received the same treatment.” A door slammed open behind them. John’s muscles tensed, and he grabbed Sherlock’s arm in a vice-like grip. His eyes strained in the darkness to discover the cause of the offending noise. The prince only kept talking. “So I lived luxuriously as a prince. It’s hardly my fault. I can’t control how the metaphorical die was cast.”

“Sherlock, shut up.”

“What?”

“Shut up for a minute!”

“Don’t be rude.”

“Sherlock-!”

A calloused hand closed over John’s mouth, and his feet were swept out from under him. He struggled against the arms pulling him backwards, pathetically reaching out to Sherlock. The prince, having met a similar fate, reached back.

~*~*~

Sherlock tried in vain to dislodge the fingers clamped over his mouth. He kicked and yelled and generally made a scene. (He’d always been a touch dramatic, and he dared say being kidnapped was worth a bit of a fuss.) The hand over his mouth was small but sturdy, belonging to a woman, and calloused in all the right places for a tailor or seamstress. A small part of him mourned the loss of talented fingers as his teeth sunk into the woman’s flesh.

The assailant yelped and tore her hand away. Without the support of the woman’s hold, Sherlock dropped to the ground, grunting as his back hit the hard cobblestone road. The prince tasted blood in his mouth and spat, grimacing as he pushed himself to his feet. The woman held her bleeding hand close to her chest.

John may not have had an opportunity to unsheath his sword, but the same was not to be said of Sherlock. The prince drew his dagger and turned on his attacker, grabbing her by the waist and resting the edge of his blade at her throat.

The man holding John froze in place. His shocked expression was almost lost in the night. Stupidly, he tightened his grip on John’s small body.

“You! Let my partner go,” Sherlock demanded, “or I’ll kill yours.”

Even John’s eyes were wide. Sherlock hated it. He hated what he was doing. But he couldn’t let them take John.

Sherlock’s hand shook. The woman was still.

The man considered them for a moment, shook his head, and dragged John inside a darkened house. Sherlock stood dumbly in the middle of the street as his hostage carefully removed herself from his grip.

“We’re just as scared as you are,” the woman offered. Her voice was rough around the edges, and it made Sherlock shiver. “Come inside.”

She disappeared into the house, and Sherlock followed closely behind.

The man who’d taken John was forcing him into a chair, shoving the knight back in place every time he tried to get up.

Push. “Don’t you think there’s a reason no one’s out at night?”

“Sherlock-!”

Push. “Didn’t you wonder why it was so goddamn quiet?”

“You can’t just-”

Push. “For God’s sake, man, shut the hell up and _listen_ to me. We’re trying to help you. You’re going to get yourselves killed if you keep going on like you are, wandering around town in the dark shouting about the lost princes like he can’t hear you!”

“The lost princes?” Sherlock cut in. At the sound of his voice, John relaxed, sinking into the offered chair with a relieved sigh. “The ones who lived here years ago?”

“Yes,” the woman piped up. She cleaned the bite wound on her hand, glaring at Sherlock. “It sounds like a fairytale, we know, but… what else are we supposed to call them?”

The prince cocked his head. “And what do you mean by ‘lost?’”

“Ever since Moriarty-”

“You’re not from New Scotland,” the man interrupted.  “I know every person in this town. We both do. So who are you and what do you want? Why are you here?”

Sherlock turned his gaze on John.

“Are you all right?”

“Not hurt. Bit pissed. You?”

“Likewise.”

“Hello?” the woman prompted. “My brother asked you some questions.”

“Ah, yes, your brother. The unofficial leader of New Scotland, I assume.” At the man’s bewildered expression, Sherlock continued, “Your posture screams leadership, possibly law enforcement, and you speak with authority like you’re comfortable throwing it around. You and your sister were the only residents to drag us inside from a street I assume is lined with habited houses, which means you’ve a sense of responsibility for this town and those who dwell here. So. You’re the leader, then. I suppose it’s you I should be talking to. What were your questions?”

The man’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide. Sherlock nearly scoffed. Tedious.

“Brilliant,” John muttered, grinning up at him. “Just fantastic!”

Sherlock blushed and turned his attention back to the new man.

“Yeah, it was!” the man agreed. “Brilliant, I mean. Wow. That was right. All of it!”

Sherlock’s gaze caught on the woman’s frown.

“But I’m the one with the brain,” she said, sending a halfhearted glare at her brother. “Now, _who_ are you, and why are you here?”

Sherlock took a seat at the table next to John and introduced the pair of them.

“My name is Prince William Holmes of London, _Central London,_ in fact, and this is my partner Sir John Watson of Northumberland. I’m here to kill Moriarty and save my parents and you by association, it seems. John is here to make sure I don’t kill myself while I’m at it.”

If the man had been surprised at Sherlock’s _de_ ductions, he was floored by Sherlock’s _intro_ ductions.

“No,” he breathed, shaking his head. He backed away from both of them, his hands held in front of him like an offering. A sharp laugh escaped his lips. “No, you can’t be. They’re dead. The princes. They have to be. They can’t have survived.”

“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?” Sherlock snapped, his whole body tensing at the reminder of his little brother’s death. He relaxed as John’s warm hand covered his. “I’m here, and you’re going to help me.”

“Says who?” demanded the woman, her dark eyes narrowed. “You’re lying. I know it.” She turned on John. “And you! You don’t have anything to add?”

“Not much,” the knight replied. “Are you going to help us…?”

“Greg Lestrade,” the man offered politely, “and my sister Rosalie.”

“Right,” John agreed, smiling. He had a lovely smile. Sherlock squeezed his hand tighter. “We’re looking for any help we can get, I suppose. Even if it’s just a couple of horses that can take us to Central London. We don’t mean to put anyone in danger.”

Rosalie’s frown remained, carved into her face like an inscription on stone. A matching expression graced her brother’s face. The resemblance was astonishing, but only when they frowned so deeply.

“You’re worried. You have no way of confirming my identity,” Sherlock said. He knew by the almost invisible twitch in her lips that he’d been right. “I can provide no confirmation other than John’s support of my claim, which does you no good if you decide you don’t believe him either. Surely there must be something you can ask, something I would only know if I were the prince. Oh, but then, only I’d know to ask myself that question. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, Rosalie, but I’ve been stuck in much worse the last few weeks. You’re-”

“Do you know what’s been happening to us?” the woman asked, her eyes unbearably sad.

Sherlock paused, his mouth hanging open. His hands were frozen in midair, outstretched during his usual wild gesturing. Rosalie and Greg took seats across from them.

Slowly, he folded his hands in his lap. His father had tried to instill in him proper manners before they began to host those terrible matchmaking parties, but Sherlock had never quite gotten the hang of it.

“We’re starving,” Rosalie said. Sherlock eyed her healthy figure, finding no evidence of malnutrition. She glared at him. “No matter how much we eat, it’s never enough. We’re _hungry._ We killed the livestock after, what, two years? We tried to keep them going. We really did, but…” Rosalie shook her head, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“All hell broke loose,” Greg continued. “Anderson was the first to go a little mad. He killed a calf to feed him and his wife and her sister, and Dimmock was right pissed about it, so she nearly castrated Anderson, and right in front of his nephews, too. It took a while for people to settle down, after that. We rationed the livestock until there were none left. We kept farming. We still starve. And that’s not even considering the things that come at night.”

“The things you warned me about earlier,” John put in.

Greg nodded. “They would’ve killed us if they could.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can’t _die,”_ Rosalie growled. She unrolled her sleeves, showing off matching sets of scars stretching over her forearms. “The beasts come at night, and anyone who’s outside is torn apart and sewn back together before morning light. All night, their screams… I haven’t been caught outside in forty-eight years. We learned how to fight them, but they always changed once we got too good at it. It was a game to him. My people - _your_ people, if you’re telling the truth - are a game to him. Do you understand that?” Yes. Sherlock understood. “It’s just a _game.”_

“He’s too clever for us to outsmart him,” Greg added. “We can’t do it alone. So you’ll forgive us if we don’t believe you. We’ve been waiting for decades.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He had never _really_ been in the running for the throne. Mycroft exceeded any and all expectations set upon him. Sherlock had not. He thought he would never have to deal with this sort of thing, and especially not so soon. He thought of his room in the castle, books piled high on his desk and on his bookshelf and on every available spot on the floor. What good would that do him now?

“What of the other cities?” Sherlock asked, his voice low. “Dewer’s Hollow? Sussex?”

“Some contact,” Rosalie answered. She wiped stray tears from her face. “Irregular. Barely anyone keeps time these days. It’s much the same there as it is here.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and steepled his fingers underneath his chin.

“John,” he said absently, “I bit Rosalie on the way inside, might have broken the skin just a bit. Thought you’d like to know.”

“Oh! Ah, miss, I’m a doctor-”

“I thought you were a knight.”

“Well, a man can be both. I can take a look if you’d like.”

“It’ll be fine in the morning.”

“It might get infected.”

“It won’t.

“With all due respect, miss-”

“Don’t call me that,” Rosalie snapped. “I’ve been twenty-five longer than you’ve been alive.”

Sherlock frowned. “Only in your twenties, and these people listen to you two?”

“We can be convincing,” Greg answered, “and our mother was well-respected. Thank God she passed before all this.”

“Thank God,” Rosalie murmured.

“I’m sorry,” John said abruptly. He looked haggard and deeply troubled, and Sherlock never wanted to see that look on him again. “About all this,” John continued. “We… No one knows about it outside here. Half of Northumberland is convinced it’s just a story. My mother used to tell it to me before bed.”

Rosalie gave John a warm smile, but Sherlock spoke before she had the chance.

“How many people here know how to fight?” he questioned.

Rosalie hesitated. “Why?”

“The monsters haven’t come in over than a month, have they? Why didn’t you mention it earlier?”

Rosalie’s rounded face turned red, and she defended, “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’ll decide what I need to know from now on,” Sherlock snapped. “Now, how many of you can fight?”

“All of us,” Greg answered, sending a glare Sherlock’s way. “Excepting the children, of course. We wouldn’t allow it.”

“I should hope not.”

The four were silent, regarding each other warily. Sherlock found it all very tedious.

“You both know I’m telling the truth about my identity,” he blurted. “There’s no other explanation, is there? John tells me no one in their right mind enters London these days, and-”

“Mate, I’m not sure you’re in your right mind,” Greg cut in, laughing mirthlessly. “You or your friend.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Perhaps I’m not. That doesn’t change anything. You’ve been waiting for salvation for fifty-six years. Here I am. Are you going to turn me away?”

Rosalie squinted at him, obviously considering his words.

“What do you need from us?” she finally asked.

Sherlock nearly sighed in relief, but he was careful to distance himself. Emotions wouldn’t help him save his family, his people. Logic and bloodshed would do the trick just fine. Greg and Rosalie listened intently as Sherlock described everything he might need from the most to least likely scenario. As the prince spoke, Greg steadily blanched, and Rosalie became more and more tense. John clasped Sherlock’s hand under the table, and Sherlock squeezed it back in thanks, grateful for John’s show of support.

When Sherlock was done, nearly an hour had passed. Rosalie’s forehead rested on the wooden table between them, and Greg’s head was in his hands.

“We’ll have to sleep on it,” Greg said apologetically. “It’s… We have to be absolutely sure. I’m sure you understand, Your Highness.”

Sherlock’s chest tightened at Greg’s use of the title.

“I do,” he replied, bowing his head. “Can I ask what changed your mind?”

Greg pursed his lips and scrubbed his face, and Sherlock waited.

“You’re right. You said you were a prince, and we’ve all heard about what the King’s middle son could do. Can do.” The man let out a heavy sigh. “I believe you are who you claim to be. I can’t say that for the rest of New Scotland, but they trust me. And, God help me, now I’m trusting you.”

Sherlock allowed a small smile to tug at his lips.

“Thank you, Lestrade. Hopefully the other cities in London have been graced with competent authority.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. The honor is-”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupted, his eyes closed, “once is enough. Just call me Sherlock, both of you. You don’t happen to have an extra bed, do you?”

“Ah, no, Your High- _Sherlock,”_ Rosalie replied. “We have an extra cot. I’ll take it-”

“No, no!” John refused. “Sherlock and I can take the cot. Right, Sherlock?”

The prince only shrugged. Rosalie frowned.

“It’s very small.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied. “If we could wrap this up… I think my companion’s about to drop.”

“Shut it, you posh git. I’m tired. My body’s not _just transport.”_

Greg and Rosalie wore matching horrified expressions at John’s words. Laughter rumbled in Sherlock’s chest and fought its way out of his mouth. Meanwhile, John’s high-pitched giggles were already dancing around the room.

Maybe Sherlock was more exhausted than he’d thought.

The pair of them were still giggling softly as they crawled under the blanket the Lestrades had provided, wrapping their arms around each other and kissing sweetly until both of them drifted off to sleep.

~*~*~

The first thing John saw when he woke up was Sherlock’s face only a few inches from his own. Those perceptive blue eyes regarded him warmly, and the prince’s lips stretched into the most beautiful smile John had ever seen. He couldn’t help but smile back, his heart beating thunderously in his chest. He swallowed down the shame that caught in his throat. (It was all right to think of the prince that way. Sherlock certainly cared for John. Sherlock liked kissing John. John liked it too. Magic always fell silent for them.)

“Morning, Sherlock,” John rasped. “How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to talk Graham and his sister over to our side,” Sherlock replied.

“Greg.”

“What?”

“His name is Greg, you git.”

Sherlock frowned. “Oh. Yes. I should remember that.”

“Yes, you really should,” John replied. “Where are Greg and Rosalie, anyway?”

“Oh, they’re out. They’ve sort of a council here that they’ve developed in the last fifty or so years. They’re bringing them ‘round to the idea of helping now. Someone’s gone to fetch authority from neighboring towns. Greg and Rosalie won’t be back for hours.”

 _“Hours,_ you think?” John replied, smiling softly. “That long?”

 _“Hours,”_ Sherlock confirmed. “We’ll have to think of some way to entertain ourselves. I’m a genius, and you’re reasonably clever, so it shouldn’t be that hard.”

John grinned, a panicked laugh bubbling up in his chest.

“You’re a bad man.”

“An absolute menace,” Sherlock agreed. He dropped a kiss on John’s forehead and vaulted out of bed. “John! I smell like an animal. We need a bath.”

A soft breath rushed out of John’s lungs. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, silently thankful that Sherlock didn’t mean… other things. John was barely over his complex about allowing himself to _think_ of Sherlock affectionately. He couldn’t imagine doing anything _more_ without his stomach twisting.

“A bath,” he sighed. “You need a bath.”

“John, I have it on good authority that you could also use a bath.”

“Shut it,” John laughed, rolling out of bed. “I imagine you’ve already found the basin, then. I’ll go get the water, shall I?”

“Nonsense. I’ve already done it. It’s in Greg’s room.”

“You made yourself a bath?”

“I made _us_ a bath. And _yes,_ I did make it myself. I’m not completely useless.”

“No, never useless,” John replied. “Why Greg’s room?”

“We could hardly put it out here in their sitting room, John.”

John laughed. “No, no, you’re right. Go ahead. I'll wait my turn."

"About that," Sherlock began, his cheeks red, "I thought I might need some help."

John hesitated. They both knew Sherlock wouldn't need help with his bath, but neither said a thing.

"Yeah," John replied. "Yeah, okay. We'll, ah… we'll do that, then."

Sherlock turned and disappeared into a side door, and John had to take a deep breath before following him. The prince had already divested himself of his shirt and stockings when John entered the room, and his nimble hands rested at the button of his trousers. John smiled, though he reckoned it looked more like a grimace. Sherlock's little smile faltered, and he brought his arms up to cover his chest.

"Did you find the soap?" John asked, feeling like an utter tit.

"It's on the dresser," Sherlock replied. "John, you don't- You know you don't have to… do anything you don't want to."

John gave the prince a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, I know. Come on, get in the tub."

Thankfully, Sherlock's smile returned. John, looking for any reason to give the prince privacy whilst he undressed, busied himself with finding something they could use to dry off after all was done. He turned back only when he heard Sherlock's happy little hum as he settled into the water.

"What do you want me to do?" John asked.

"What?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You said you needed my help."

"Right. Well." Slowly, Sherlock's face and neck reddened, his blush turning darker and darker the longer John looked at him. Eventually, the prince held out his arm, water dripping onto the wooden floorboards. He was trembling. "The soap, John?"

Once he had the soap, Sherlock began to scrub dirt from his skin. John drew up a stool and sat next to the prince, wanting desperately to touch but uncertain if he should. Instead of touching Sherlock, John dipped his hand into the water, startling when he felt its temperature.

"This is freezing! Did you add any hot water to this at all?"

The prince nodded. "Long before you woke up."

"You idiot! It's the middle of winter. You'll catch a cold in this."

"You should get in, then," Sherlock retorted, his teeth chattering. "Warm it up with me."

"You know the tub's not big enough for both of us," John argued. "You start washing. I'll heat more water over the fire."

Sherlock groaned, but John shook his head.

"I'll just be a minute."

When John returned to Sherlock with a pitcher of boiled water in his hand, the prince was lounging in the tub, his curly head hanging off the edge, his eyes closed. Carefully, John poured the water into Sherlock's bath. The prince bolted upright, sending water splashing over the edge of the tub and onto John's trousers.

"This is all part of your plan to get me in my pants, isn't it?" John laughed, testing the water again. "Are you all right?"

“I have no such plan.”

“Yeah, I know.” John took his place on the stool again. He poured a handful of water over Sherlock’s head, smiling when the prince glared up at him.

“What are you doing?”

“Helping. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Give me the soap.”

Sherlock scoffed, but he still shifted so John could reach him better. John worked the soap through Sherlock’s curls, gently tugging out knots as he went. Sherlock let out a quiet sigh as his shoulders relaxed, and John smiled to himself.

“So, you talked to Greg and Rosalie this morning?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. They don’t like me.”

John frowned. “Why do you think that?”

“I offered them some of our food, but they wouldn’t take it. Greg was very eager to leave once I was awake. Rosalie wouldn’t even look at me.”

“I don’t think they dislike you,” John said. “They’re probably unsure of how to act around you. You’re a prince.”

“You were never like that.”

“I was. I guess it helped that you weren’t _my_ prince. Plus, the first time I saw you, you were in your pants and stockings. Doesn’t really make for an imposing picture.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, I remember. Help me out of here, would you?”

John handed Sherlock a towel when he stood, and the prince gingerly wrapped it around his body. John looked away as Sherlock dressed, his ears burning. Even if he was in love with Sherlock, everything he’d imagined had been in theory, and he wasn’t ready to give himself over to reality just yet.

John thought Sherlock would have been able to read it on him by the way he laced his boots or something equally as impossible.

But Sherlock hadn’t read it.

Sherlock crowded him up against the wall, bodies pressed together, Sherlock’s mouth on John’s neck. John’s heart beat wildly, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of their proximity or the panic crackling through his bones as Sherlock’s nimble (cold) fingers found their way under his shirt. Those fingers continued roaming over John’s stomach and chest as Sherlock’s mouth met his own. The familiarity comforted him, and they kissed slowly, softly, until Sherlock parted his lips. John took the liberty of swiping his tongue over Sherlock’s bottom lip, which caused the prince to shiver against him. Sherlock broke away to divest John of his shirt.

“Sherlock, don’t,” John breathed. He hoped he’d injected enough concern into those words to make his point clear. His stomach plummeted when he heard Sherlock’s response.

“Oh, I don’t mind your scar. I’ve been meaning to get a good look at it.”

Once the offending garment was on the ground, the prince’s lips were back on John’s. Waves of panic washed over him as Sherlock’s fingers traced the marred skin on his left shoulder.

John stiffened, breaking the kiss and swallowing hard. He breathed raggedly, leaning back against the wall. Sherlock backed away from his as if he were on fire.

“John? I’m sorry, John, I didn’t think-”

“I said don’t,” he murmured, his eyes shut tightly, his fingers flexing at his sides.

“You’re panicking, John. Don’t panic.”

“Ta, I’ll just switch it off,” John snapped. “I _know_ I’m panicking.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having a scar,” Sherlock continued. “Plenty of people have scars. I’ll have scars on my hand and on my leg and on my chest once those fully heal. Those are only because you healed me.”

“Sherlock, please stop talking.”

“Scars can tell very interesting stories, you know. For example, you were shot with an arrow, most likely poisoned, and I can tell that from the discoloration of your skin around the entry point.”

“You’re not helping.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to hear him.

“Magic started to heal you before the arrow was removed, which means someone had to rip it out of your skin _after_ it had sown itself back together-”

_“Sherlock!”_

John opened his eyes and followed the movement of Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed. The prince stared at the wall next to John’s head, his eyes unmoving. His lips were pressed tightly together, and his face was white.

There came the sound of a door slamming open, and several voices talking at once.

“Sherlock?” John prompted, his heart in his throat.

“I’ll get it,” the prince replied, rushing out the door. John could barely hear Sherlock’s faux chipper voice as he greeted the newcomers. “Gavin! John’s just having a bath. Any news from Sussex?”

John sighed and put his head in his hands.

He breathed deeply until his heart stopped pounding.

He was an idiot.

To be fair, Sherlock was also an idiot. But at least Sherlock had been an idiot trying to help.

~*~*~

Magic cannot predict the future. It can only put its faith in its humans, and it knows it has chosen well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a long chapter. I don't think the next one will be quite as lengthy.
> 
> Leave a kudos or a comment if you wanna make my day. It means more than you can imagine (if you're also a writer of fanfic, you know what I'm talking about).
> 
> Also feel free to correct me if I've been inconsistent or just plain fucked up some grammar.
> 
> Have a fantastic day, and I'll be back next week.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not edited. Sorry if I've fucked up some grammar. Feel free to correct me.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> Oh, and...  
> I owe you a fall.

“Sally Donovan,” the woman said, sticking out her hand. She was slight but well-muscled, and Sherlock distantly thought that he was glad she was on his side. “You’re the prince everyone’s been talking about.”

Sherlock shook the offered hand, unused to the greeting. 

“I am. And you, the leader of Dewer’s Hollow. I’m glad to know I have your support.”

“Yes. Well. What exactly do you need us for?”

“John and I are going to slip into the castle and kill Moriarty,” Sherlock replied bluntly. “We’ll need you to either create a distraction or fight his guards, whichever one seems to be the most appropriate.”

“You want us to die for you,” Donovan rephrased. 

“I want to kill Moriarty. I can’t control whether that means life or death for you.” Sherlock frowned at his own words. John should have been there to make sure he didn’t alienate anyone. Maybe he should have just paid more attention to his father. “That sounded considerably worse than I meant it.”

“I think so too,” Donovan agreed.

Greg cleared his throat and gestured towards two other women, one considerably older than the other. 

“Stella Hopkins,” the latter offered. Unlike Donovan, she bowed rather than shake Sherlock’s hand. It felt more familiar but just as disconcerting. “Whitehall is at your service, Your Highness.”

Before he could respond, the old woman hurried up to him.

“Oh, and Sussex, too,” she added, smiling brightly. “Anything you need, dear. Within reason, of course.”

Sherlock frowned. “I know you, but I can’t place you anywhere.”

“I’ll forgive you that one since it’s been half a century,” the woman replied, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “You’ll get it, dear. Don’t worry if it takes a little time.”

“You worked in the castle,” Sherlock replied. “You left before the ball, which explains why you’re living in Sussex and not Central London. You can’t have worked in the kitchens or as a maid, else you’d be needed at hand- Oh!” A lopsided grin spread across Sherlock’s face, and he dropped a happy kiss on one of the woman’s cheeks. “Mrs. Hudson!” he cried. “How could I forget  _ you, _ Mrs. Hudson?”

“How indeed, dear? I’ll try not to be hurt.”

“In my defense, I haven’t needed a nanny in twelve years.”

“You’d still do well to remember the woman who changed your nappies, young man.”

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. You were visiting, then, when it all happened. Mrs. Turner?”

“I see you remember Mrs.  _ Turner,”  _ Mrs. Hudson huffed, raising one eyebrow.

“No, no. I merely associate her name with yours,” Sherlock explained. “I was right, though?”

“Of course, Sherlock, you’ve always been such a bright young man.”

“How’d you become the leader of Sussex? Didn’t they have anyone up for the job?”

Mrs. Hudson shrugged. “I can be persuasive. You should know. The hours I spent trying to convince you to eat your vegetables!”

If Sherlock hadn’t been so happy to see the woman before him, he would have blushed at her words. Greg cleared his throat, gaining the attention of everyone gathered around his dining table.

“We should reconvene the council,” he suggested. “Any objections?”

“Excellent idea, dear,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. “Enough of all this chatter!”

Sherlock pulled out a chair for the woman, waiting until she settled before he drew a chair for himself. Donovan and Hopkins stared at him as if he’d grown another head. Slowly, the remaining man and women took their seats. Greg, naturally, sat at the head of the table, with Sherlock and Rosalie on either side of him. Sally settled in next to Mrs. Hudson, and Stella took the chair across from her.

“Right. Again, Rosalie and I can’t- Oh, for God’s sake!”

The door to Greg’s room opened slowly, and John poked his head out.

“Uh, yeah, hello, everyone! I’m just getting my pants on, so if you could wait a bit before you start your speech, that’d be lovely.”

“Please make it quick, Sir Watson,” Greg replied, scrubbing his face. Sherlock almost felt bad for the man. “We’ll be waiting for you.”

“Ta, Greg,” John replied, disappearing from view.

Sherlock watched the door shut, his heart in his throat and a fond smile on his face. He jumped when Mrs. Hudson pinched his thigh.

“Sherlock,” she gasped, “was that your young man?”

“Mrs. Hudson-”

“He’s  _ very _ handsome. What was his name? Sir Watson?”

“John,” Sherlock answered softly. “He’s a doctor.”

“Oh, a doctor! Well done, dear.”

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“All I’m saying is that a doctor and a knight are both good catches. A knight who happens to be a doctor is a  _ miracle.” _

Sherlock groaned and buried his head in his hands as a blush burned his cheeks. He stayed frozen like that until John emerged from Greg’s room, fully dressed and clean-shaven, and took the seat between Rosalie and Stella.

“Sorry about all that,” he said. “Greg, you can continue.”

The man just sighed. Rosalie took the chance to introduce John to the women gathered round the table.

“All right, all right,” Greg grumbled. “Let’s get started. We really can’t thank you enough for responding so quickly to the news,” Greg started, gesturing towards Hopkins, Mrs. Hudson, and Donovan. “It can’t have been easy to get here on such short notice.”

“You say that as if  _ we’re _ the ones who ate our horses,” Donovan teased.

Greg smiled, but when Rosalie kicked him under the table, he sobered and continued right where he left off.

“I think it’s best we wait to make any major decisions until we receive word back from your neighbors,” he said. “We’ll take all the help we can get.”

“If too many people are brought into this, Moriarty will stop us before we even start,” Donovan argued. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Moriarty already knows we’re coming for him,” Sherlock put in. “He’s known for some time.”

“He has spies,” John added. “We were followed for weeks before she gave up on us.”

“I agree with Donovan,” Hopkins said. “It’s too dangerous to involve more people than we have to.”

“And if the people of Dewer’s Hollow and Whitehall don’t want to fight?” Mrs. Hudson questioned. “What then? Should you have Sussex and New Scotland fight alone? Surely we would need Musgrave or Norbury at our side to make up for the loss.”

“Why would the prince need that many soldiers?” Donovan demanded. “He’s not going to make an army out of us. Not Dewer’s Hollow. I won’t allow it.”

“I have no interest in building an army, especially out of civilians,” Sherlock assured. “We had the support of Northumberland only a fortnight ago-.”

Donovan frowned. “You mean you managed to convince Belgravia and Dartmoor to join you?”

“No. I mean I had the entirety of Northumberland’s army at my disposal.”

“That where you got him? Your little pet?”

“John isn’t-”

“I’m not a _pet_ anymore than you are,” John snapped. “Northumberland doesn’t matter. We no longer have their support.”

“He’s right. The circumstances have changed. John and I are alone again,” Sherlock said. “We can slip into the castle and kill Moriarty with or without your help, should you choose to stay home. Without you, we run the risk of Moriarty escaping into Northumberland or Piccadilly. There is no guarantee unless you help us. I would have thought Londoners to be the type of people to fight for their country.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded firmly, her hand clasped around Sherlock’s.

“As I said before, dear, Sussex is at your service.”

“And Whitehall,” Hopkins offered.

Greg cleared his throat. “And New Scotland, without a doubt, Your Highness.”

Sherlock turned his gaze on Donovan, who wore a twisted frown.

“Dewer’s Hollow stands with the prince,” she said finally, not looking the least bit happy about any of it.

Sherlock gave the table a measured smile.

“We’ll wait to hear word from their neighbors, then?” Rosalie asked.

“I see no reason to wait,” Sherlock replied. “If we can outfit those who want to fight, we should leave as soon as possible. Some stay here to guard the children and elderly, of course, but those men and women who are able and willing should be ready to set out by tomorrow morning. Unless anyone here objects?”

The table was silent. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at them.

“You don’t have to agree with me,” he said. “This is as much your fight as it is mine.”

One by one, the occupants of the table agreed. Sherlock sighed quietly.

“Does anyone have a quill on them?” John asked, spreading their map over the table. 

Sherlock listened intently as John explained their strategy (a small-scale version of what they’d planned to do with Northumberland’s army), marking the map with ink circles and arrows as he spoke. Donovan seemed to have a way with strategy; she talked almost as much as John.

Mrs. Hudson squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and he squeezed back.

~*~*~

Many hours later, after the sun had sunken into the horizon and darkness stretched its inky fingers across New Scotland, John and Sherlock fell into bed.

Sherlock curled up with his back to John, and the empty inches between them felt like miles. After weeks of Sherlock clinging to him like a leech, John found it strange to be even an inch apart from the prince. He stared at the back of the prince’s head, his fingers itching to reach out and touch. John watched the movement of Sherlock’s body as he breathed steadily in and out. They were both wide awake, but neither spoke.

The thought that Sherlock might not want to speak to him crossed John’s mind more than once during the day, but he found he was unable to sleep if the prince wouldn’t even touch him. There was also the chance of one or both of their deaths in the next few days, and John wanted to spend as much time with the prince as possible until then.

“Sherlock?” he murmured, resting just his fingertips on the prince’s arm. “You all right?”

John cursed himself and his stupidity.

“Fine, John. A little tired, is all.”

“I thought your body was ‘merely transport.’”

“I’ve had a very long, tiring day, and I could do with some rest.”

“I’ve been telling you that for weeks, and you’re only gonna listen to my advice when I wanna talk to you?”

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock sighed, the tension in his body fading away.

“For starters, I want you to look at me.”

Slowly, Sherlock turned to John, an unhappy look on his face.

“What is it?”

“This morning,” John started, suddenly uncertain, “after you had your bath but before I had mine… I want to apologize, but-”

“There’s nothing you need to apologize for.”

“Well, maybe for shouting at you.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” the prince insisted, refusing to meet John’s eye. “I pushed you too far. The deductions…”

“Sherlock, I love your deductions. I think they’re brilliant, you know that. I just panicked when you saw… it. The scar. And of course you were right about all of it!” John laughed. “So right that I couldn’t stand to hear it.”

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock replied softly. “I never meant any harm.”

“I know. Neither did I.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You can tell me all your other deductions now, if you want. As long as you don’t need to see it again.”

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head. “I memorized most of it.”

“Of course you did,” John laughed. “You’re extraordinary.”

Sherlock shifted closer and draped one arm over John’s waist. John smiled to himself as Sherlock’s head settled on his chest.

“I don’t have any more deductions for you,” the prince told him, his voice muffled.

“No?”

“No. Not important.”

John grinned, dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s head, and let himself sleep.

~*~*~

Two days later, Sherlock stood tall before the eighty or so civilians who’d opted to fight with him against Moriarty and his brainwashed army. Most of them were still half-asleep, leaning against each other for support, men and women united to have some hand in saving their kingdom.

These people could barely fight. They were hopeless.

They were braver than Sherlock.

Greg cleared his throat beside Sherlock, and the prince raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll reach Central London in less than a day,” Greg told him. “They could use some words of encouragement.”

“Words of encouragement. Not my area.”

“Your Highness, they -  _ we _ \- already think you’re a great man,” Greg insisted. “They need to know you’re a good one. That you’re not leading us to our deaths for a prince who doesn’t care.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Greg sighed, and he was pulled away by his sister, demanding his attention. Sherlock remained where he was, carefully considering the support he’d acquired in the last few days. He hardly noticed when John joined him.

“What was that about?” the knight asked, frowning slightly.

“Gary thinks-”

_ “Greg.” _

“Yes, that. Greg thinks I should talk to them.”

_ “Them?” _

“The others. Do keep up, John. He says they need to know I care.”

“Do you? Care about them, I mean?” John questioned, his eyes alight.

Sherlock was quiet, letting John’s words fill the silence between them. The villagers were chatting amongst themselves, the air thick with tension but lightened by conversation and occasional laughter. Rosalie and Donovan were busy showing a group of young men and women how to hold their longswords. Yards away, Hopkins demonstrated the use of a bow, grabbing an arrow from the quiver on her back and smoothly nocking it, taking careful aim before disarming.

As he looked over his people, Sherlock thought of the King his father had been.

“Will caring about them help me save them?” he asked finally, turning his gaze towards John.

“Yes, it will,” John replied. “Right now, they’re fighting for themselves, their families. Make them want to fight for you.”

“And that will save them,” Sherlock said, unconvinced.

“Any reason to fight is a reason to live.”

“Maybe you should give the speech.”

John laughed, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I can’t do it,” the knight chuckled. “I’m not even from London. Why would they care about what I say?  _ You _ have to do it. That’s the only way it’ll matter.”

Sherlock let out a quiet sigh before agreeing. He was vaguely aware of John’s bright smile before the blond vanished, presumably to correct Hopkins on her form. A group of villagers from Sussex watched Sherlock from the corner of their eyes, not very subtly tracking his movements. Sherlock recognized one of them.

Billy had sought him out shortly after they’d set off for London. He was younger than Sherlock and technically not supposed to be with them at all.

“I’ve been fifteen for fifty years, Your Highness,” Billy had argued. “I’ve got an eight-year-old sister who’s been alive longer than our grandparents. No one in London’s really a kid anymore.”

Billy wasn’t the first nor the last underage straggler to be found amongst the adults prepared for war. Sherlock caught the boy’s eye and nodded a silent greeting. Billy and the girl he was with, a seventeen-year-old named Janine, bowed their heads.

The crowd silenced as Sherlock mounted his horse. He hoped the extra height would lend him visibility and confidence. Every eye turned to him, and he ran his hands through his hair, his heart thundering in his chest.

“No doubt your leaders have already spoken to you,” he began. “Lestrade, Rosalie, Hopkins, Donovan, Mrs. Hudson. They’ve already told you that this will be hard. That this is the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. Well, hopefully.” 

A small chuckle ran through the crowd, and Sherlock frowned. 

“They haven’t told you why, so I’ll take the liberty. We’re not fighting someone else. There’s no Afghanistan or Piccadilly or Slough on the other side of this war. There stands only one man. One man who will use your own blood against you. We have blood in that castle - family and friends that Moriarty will use against us. Your leaders haven’t told you that yet, have they?”

The Londoners were silent, grim expressions on their stony faces, white knuckles gripping swords, bows, spears, shields. 

“They haven’t told you why we’re going to win. We don’t fight for riches or for pride. We fight for our homes, for our families. We fight for ourselves and freedom. We fight together. We win together.”

Sherlock’s people cheered, their weapons in the air, voices echoing in the trees. When they were silent once more, Sherlock continued, “I’m honoured to fight alongside the people of London, and I am proud of our kingdom. Oh! And if you happen to see a dragon - big, dark, scar over one eye,” Sherlock added, “please don’t try to kill him. That’s my older brother, and he’s probably about to save your life.”

The crowd accepted the explanation, though a confused murmur ran through them at the mention of a great beast. Sherlock’s whole body relaxed as the attention shifted away from him.

“Did you mean all that at the end?”

Sherlock jumped, discovering John standing diligently at the horse’s side.

“I’m a terrific actor, John, and a master of disguise.”

The knight didn’t seem impressed, and he only smiled.

Suddenly, there came the clatter of hooves and frantic shouting, and Greg was before them, his face white and his body tense.

“Scouts have just returned,” he said. “Few miles ahead - halfway to Central London - an army. Northumberland. They’re waiting for you. Have been for a week, they said. General Shan requested you.”

Sherlock cast John an interested look before offering his hand.

“Come on, then,” he prompted, smiling brightly as John took the hint. As the blond settled behind him, muscled arms circling his waist, Sherlock turned to Greg. “Lead the way. Quickly, now.”

~*~*~

Soo Lin Yao was dead.

John watched helplessly as Sherlock’s shoulders fell and his face crumpled. Within a second, the devastation was gone, replaced by an unusually stony mask.

General Shan made it very clear that her only reason for being in London was by request (although John thought it might have been more of a punishment) of her husband, who had stayed in Northumberland to oversee the war in Afghanistan.

“She spent nearly every day asking him to help you. I think the worry got to her.”

John flashed a tight smile and asked, “The plan, then. Still the same, Your Highness?”

Shan scowled, her red lips twisted into something ugly.

“Yes, just the same. We’ll be in position tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“We have some soldiers to join you,” Sherlock said. “Protect them.”

“As  _ you _ would?”

_ “Yes.” _

“They can create as many distractions as they can,” John suggested. “The knights under Moriarty’s control would be spread out, then, not as powerful. Not as hard to take down.”

“We’ll let the Londoners know when we return,” Sherlock said. “Give them the option.”

John nodded, and Shan agreed, and dawn quickly followed.

The camp was somber as Londoners outfitted themselves in meager armor, gathering weapons and whispering privately with loved ones. Sherlock had called John to their tent - still the meager one they’d sort of stolen from Mike - and John had helped him fasten his armor, their conversation hushed as he worked.

“John, there is a chance that one or both of us might die.”

“A high chance?”

“I’d say about fifty percent.”

“A little high,” John replied easily. “We’ll just make sure to be that other fifty percent, yeah?”

“John. This is serious.”

“I know. And before you even suggest it, I’m not leaving you. I’m gonna be by your side through it all.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, obviously. Unless something comes up.”

Sherlock had turned, smiled sadly, and kissed him soundly on the mouth. John had kissed back slowly, gently, memorizing the feel of Sherlock’s lips on his own.

The sun rose steadily above the trees. Snow crunched under their feet. All were silent. John’s hands were steady.

They rode into battle.

Moriarty’s army was ready. John wasn’t surprised.

John and Sherlock watched, just yards away, as Londoners and Northumbers alike faced off with Moriarty’s knights, swords clashing and shields colliding. Sherlock turned to John, his face grim.

“The sooner we kill him, the sooner this ends.”

John only nodded.

They mounted their horses and set off for the castle, avoiding the battle entirely. They passed one quarter of Northumberland’s army, which was their cue to descend upon Central London. It made John sick to think of Moriarty’s knights being slaughters, made to fight against their will in a war meant to save them.

“Don’t think about it, John,” Sherlock called over the clattering of hooves. “It’s annoying.”

John let out a surprised laugh. “Because you can hear it!” he replied, grinning.

“I can!”

“No you can’t!”

John could only laugh again as they rode through the empty streets of Central London, the castle rising before them, cold and imposing. In that moment, lot of things about Sherlock made sense.

Suddenly, a striped beast leapt from an alleyway and onto the cobblestone before them, its yellowed teeth bared.

John’s stomach leapt to his throat as their horses reared back, hooves in the air, their screams ringing in his ears. John managed to keep his hold on the mare he rode, and he watched in horror as Sherlock was thrown from his saddle. Magic buzzed frantically around John, and he asked it to send health to the prince, who lay on the cobblestone road groaning pitifully.

“Woah, woah!” John cried, trying desperately to calm his horse as Sherlock’s galloped away.

Growling deep in its throat, the tiger paced before John and Sherlock, licking its chops as Sherlock staggered to his feet. John drew his sword and stood at the ready, his nerves singing with anticipation.

“Sherlock,” he said carefully, “I’m gonna distract the tiger. You take the mare and get to the castle.”

“John-”

“I’ll meet you there,” John insisted, his gaze focused on the animal before him.

Before John’s eyes, the tiger’s skin stretched and its bones contorted until it stood proudly on two legs, transformed into a woman John should have killed when he had the chance. The blonde wore a skintight black suit covered partially by a tiger skin cloak.

“Hello, boys,” she chirped, grinning madly. “A little birdie told me where you’d be. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is now, would you? Irene’s always liked to run off where we couldn’t find her.”

“Irene?” Sherlock asked, his voice quiet. John’s heart broke for him. “She can’t have.”

“And why not? You thought she was on your side? After one day of knowing each other?”

“Don’t listen to her,” John commanded. “Sherlock, get to Moriarty!”

“John, we can-”

“Go!”

“Oh, how sweet,” Mary laughed, unsheathing her own sword. It was long and thin and deadly sharp, and the metal glinted in the cold winter sunlight. “You really think you’ll get to him, don’t you?”

“I  _ know,” _ Sherlock insisted, his teeth bared. “I’ll kill him.”

“Sherlock!”

The prince nodded, mounted John’s horse, and sped away, leaving John to stare after his retreating form.

“Hmm. It didn’t take him much convincing to leave you, did it?”

“Shut up,” John snapped.

Mary lunged for him and he parried, closely avoiding a blow to the sternum.

“Oh, John, how rude! Aren’t you going to say hello first?”

“Fuck off,” John replied.

He swung and missed by just a hair, his blade bouncing off Mary’s cloak without a scratch. Mary smiled and returned the blow, catching him just on his elbow. Metal crashed against metal as they pushed each other harder and harder. John tightened his grip on his weapon, sweat dripping into his eyes. Then, he saw it.

Hiding between two houses, shrouded in a black cloak, stood a shadowy figure with a sword in one hand.

Mary chose that moment to strike, bringing her sword down over her head and into John’s shoulder, the blade carving cleanly through his armor and slicing his skin. John landed a blow to Mary’s legs, but the woman countered with a well-placed jab to John’s abdomen. The knight shouted in surprise and fell to his knees, unable to resist as Mary kicked his blade out of his hand. His cheek smarted, and he realized that Mary had cut his face.

Blood oozed from the wound on John’s face as the shadowed figure emerged from the shadows, standing behind Mary like a silent guard. Breathing heavily, John asked Magic to heal the other soldiers when he died, to keep from abandoning them when they needed it most. Warmth pooled in his belly as his skin knit itself back together, and John cursed Magic and its inability to  _ listen to him _ for once.

Mary stood over John, grinning madly as she used the tip of her sword to slash the other side of his face.

The knight snarled and spit at her feet.

The figure behind Mary held the sword in one hand and used the other to remove its hood. A familiar face smiled at him, blood splattered on the cheek and neck, pale eyes wide and bright.

Irene greeted him with a small wave before adjusting her grip on her weapon (a shining broadsword that probably weighed more than she did) and swinging at Mary. The blonde screamed as the blade sliced her back, and her sword fell to the ground, clattering against the stone road. John scrambled for his own weapon, Magic working and healing inside him.

“What are you doing here?” John demanded. Mary was struggling to right herself at his feet. Irene stood over her, sword resting at the small of Mary’s back.

“You bitch! You good-for-nothing-!” Mary screeched. Irene and John ignored her.

“I thought that would be fairly obviously by now,” Irene replied. “You should go after Sherlock. I can do this.”

“I’m sure you can-”

“John. Let me do this. Make sure he’s safe.”

John looked at Irene for a long moment before nodding brusquely and setting off towards the castle. He heard the ringing of metal against metal behind him, but he didn’t look back. A pair of Moriarty’s knights, outfitted in dark armor and wielding a mace and a dagger respectively. John eyed the mace warily, but he quickly disarmed the man holding the dagger, intercepting his with a well-placed blow to the head with the hilt of his weapon. The man’s eyes, almost completely white, rolled back in his head as his body crumpled to the ground.

The woman with the mace was trickier to take down (along with a more destructive weapon, she seemed to have greater skill in combat), but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes of parrying and slashing and stabbing before she, too, fell. 

John’s body thrummed with adrenaline even as a sense of calm washed over him. Battle was no stranger to him. The song of swords and screams and clanking metal suits was all around him. The only other place he’d felt like he belonged was at Sherlock’s side.

He was doomed.

As John made his way to the castle, he ran into more and more little skirmishes, Londoners and Northumbers fighting together against Moriarty’s knights. He stabbed one knight through the side, nodding absently as a Londoner thanked him.

He looked towards the tallest tower of the castle, the tower where Sherlock had said Moriarty would be expecting them. Magic whirred around him, ruffling his hair and urging him forward, screaming in his ears and boiling in his veins. The street turned to sand and the sun beat down on him and his friends were calling to him, dying, dying, dying, and the pain in his shoulder was  _ burning and- _

John blinked once, twice, tears gathering in his eyes, breathing until the street came back to him. His feet remained cemented to the ground, his eyes trained on the tower.

In one window stood a dark figure, and there was no way of knowing, truly, who it was. That didn’t stop John from screaming what he knew was true as the figure stepped off the ledge of the window and fell down, down, down, until John couldn’t see through the tears.

_ “SHERLOCK!” _

~*~*~

Magic does not grant wishes. It cannot give its humans wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post! I've been having some issues with my wifi lately, and google docs has been uncooperative.
> 
> Did you think I was gonna forget about the beautiful and under-appreciated Stella Hopkins? You were wrong. Mofftiss was wrong. BBC was wrong. Give Stella the screen time she deserves, damn it!
> 
> I dunno if you can tell, but I can't write fight scenes for shit! Wow!!
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you're so moved. It would make my day. :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, (super) short chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> (It's good to be back!)

The siren song of Irene's master called to her, pulled her through the trees and away from the prince and his knight. It wormed its way into her head, scratching at her ears and burrowing deep in her brain. Sat against an evergreen, pine needles pinching her naked skin, Irene tore at her scalp with blunt fingernails. Her screams echoed through the empty forest, and she ground her teeth, willing Moriarty's song out of her _goddamn_ head.

It promised warmth, food, a place where she belonged. There would be no more middle ground, no uncertainty, no discomfort.

 _Sherlock offered the same thing,_ Irene reasoned, _and you turned it down._

Irene could feel her body transforming, her bones shrinking and breaking and rearranging until she could flap her wings and take off, flying towards London despite the discomfort in her wounded shoulder. The wound throbbed painfully with every move, a reminder of the woman who caused it.

It began to snow, and the bird kept flying, its wings moving of their own accord. It wasn't long before its vision started to fade, and it fell to the ground, unconscious, landing in a snowbank far from any village in either direction. The bird curled in on itself, seeking refuge from the storm, and closed its eyes. Snow slowly covered its feathered form until only its beak was left exposed.

Exhaustion and blood loss gave no relief from the incessant song. Moriarty's hold over her was powerful, held together by the Magic used to keep her alive. Slowly, as Irene's life faded away, so did Magic's hold on her.

Hours later, long since the sun had set, Irene woke up a human, her skin frigid and her fingernails blue. Her hair, matted with ice and snow, rested heavily against her bare back, droplets of water sliding down her skin and making her shiver. Carved into her flesh with Moriarty's dagger, the _M_ on Irene's chest burned, and fire licked its way over her naked body, leaving her mostly dry but still very naked and still very lost.

She could no longer feel Moriarty's song calling her home.

Irene picked a direction and started walking. It was hours more until she reached a town, where she surprised herself by transforming once again into the creature she'd come to hate more than any other. The bird flying overhead would attract less attention than a shivering, naked stranger meandering through town.

Once in town, the woman managed to steal the essentials and bargain for the rest of it; Irene left Dartmoor fully clothed and somewhat armed, a dagger hidden beneath the folds of her pilfered dress. As Irene regained her health, Moriarty’s song came back to her, a too-familiar tune niggling at the back of her mind.

Moriarty would kill her if she went back to him. She chose Sherlock over her master, over Mary. She chose Sherlock over all of them.

Irene had to laugh (even as her skull was being split open by the pain of Moriarty’s song). She imagined her master’s confused face as her life force fluctuated, his hold on her ever weakening. If Irene could break their connection again, if she could be free of _him…_ Imagine the things she could do then.

When she could take it no longer, Irene exposed her chest, her dagger in hand and the sheath between her teeth. She carved three shaky lines over the _M,_ ruining the Moriarty’s mark on her. Blood oozed from the wounds, red staining her fingertips as tears dripped slowly down her face. Irene watched in horrified silence as her pale skin knit itself back together right before her eyes. Moriarty’s song came back to her, stronger than ever, and Irene nearly screamed. She had to get it off of her.

She took the knife and sliced her skin until she couldn’t see straight, tears and blood blurring her vision. She had to get it off of her. She had to get it _off._ Within minutes, Irene’s bodice was soaked through with blood, the blue fabric stained dark, dark red. The bleeding ebbed, and Irene wiped away the rest of the blood. There it was, unharmed and carved plain as day into her skin: _M._

Irene was nothing if not determined.

Wrapped tightly in stolen blankets, Irene spent nearly an hour trying to start a fire before the tinder finally caught. She fed the flames and warmed her hands before sticking the weapon into the center of the fire. The dagger glowed white and hot, and Irene swallowed hard.

She screamed when the molten blade pierced her skin, flesh sizzling and popping and blistering before her eyes. Dull, aching pain spread through Irene’s body, every nerve singing, every hair stood on end. The edges of her vision faded to black, and she supposed it was only a matter of time before she fainted, the smell of burnt flesh pervading the air.

It was morning when Irene woke, gagging, the taste of blood and leather heavy on her tongue. Her fingers and toes were stiff, and her nails were blue. She waited for the familiar burning sensation to bloom over her chest and save her from a frozen grave, but none came.

Irene gathered her courage and glanced down at her master’s brand.

Two gashes in the shape of an _X_ covered Moriarty’s simple, handwritten _M._ The wounds, cauterized by the white hot blade, were a deep and angry red. The wind howled around Irene, stinging her eyes and drying the tears dripping down her face. She wrapped stolen blankets and cloaks around herself, desperately trying to fight off the cold of the tail end of winter.

Moriarty’s song called to her one last time, and then there was silence.

It was a blessing.

It was terrible.

~*~*~

Although she had to admit losing her bird form made transportation more inconvenient, Irene had had enough practice following John that tailing Mary wasn’t an issue. Without Irene’s connection to Moriarty, the blonde could only assume Irene had died (from wounds inflicted by John’s sword or from the cold, Irene couldn’t know).

Hiding from the knights had been harder. There were more of them in Central London than there had ever been before. Slipping from alley to alley, Irene kept carefully to the shadows, observing the knights, their weaponry, their formation. They stood frozen in the square and main streets, bows and longswords and maces at the ready, their unseeing eyes blank and glazed over.

The next morning, as scouts from outer villages trickled into Central London, Irene hid and watched, her eyes tracking their every movement.

She smiled to herself as skirmishes broke out all over town, Northumbers and Londoners against Moriarty’s knights. Noise erupted over the city, and Irene took the opportunity to sink her dagger into the neck of a man clad in black armor. As she wrenched her dagger from his flesh, blood spurted from the wound, and she grabbed his broadsword before running off. She stole away, trailing behind Mary as the blonde strolled down a sidestreet, far from the heart of the fight. The clattering of hooves could be heard in the distance, and Irene knew why Mary had chosen this street.

Irene watched in awe as Mary transformed into a tiger, white teeth glinting in the morning sun. The beast crouched low in an alleyway not far from Irene, and, as Irene stepped back, its massive head swung in her direction. Irene froze, her heartbeat thunderous, blood rushing in her ears, hands shaking, until the tiger refocused on the horses making their way down the street.

“I can!” a familiar voice called.

“No you can’t!” came an amused reply.

Irene watched quietly as the tiger jumped from the shadows, spooking the horses and their riders. Sherlock’s body hit the hard ground, his head cracking against grey cobblestone. Irene staggered back, hand over her mouth, before making her way closer to the fight breaking out before her.

“Hello, boys. A little birdie told me where you were,” Mary drawled, and Irene frowned, angry that the blonde would make them doubt her even after her death (however true that story might be).

She moved behind and around a few houses, her weapon raised, waiting. Sherlock’s voice was clear as he spoke, and she could hear every word Mary said in reply.

“You thought she was on your side? After one day of knowing each other?”

 _Don’t listen to her,_ Irene pleaded, her jaw set.

“Don’t listen to her,” came John’s voice. Irene had never loved him more. “Sherlock, get to Moriarty!”

“John, we can-”

“Go!”

_Go, Sherlock, please._

“I know. I’ll kill him.”

“Sherlock!”

Hooves clattered against cobblestone as the prince rode towards the castle. It wasn’t long before blades were drawn and swords crashed together, metal against metal echoing down the road. Irene pulled her hood over her head and darted across the street when she was sure John and Mary wouldn’t see her.

John noticed her only when she raised her sword, hidden in an alley only feet from their struggle. She waited, watching the flurry of their blades, the pain on John’s face as Mary’s sword struck his shoulder, the disgust on Mary’s as he spit at her feet. Irene winced in sympathy as Mary forced John to his knees. Silently, she moved behind Mary, took a deep breath, and swung her sword.

As Mary fell to the ground, John stared at Irene with wide eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Irene nearly rolled her eyes as Mary screamed, “You bitch! Good-for-nothing animal!”

“I thought that would be fairly obvious by now,” Irene replied. John almost laughed. “You should go after Sherlock. I can do this.”

The knight shook his head. “I’m sure you can-”

“John,” Irene snapped, her voice thin. “Let me do this. Make sure he’s safe.”

The blond stared at her for a tense moment before running off without another word. Irene hadn’t expected any less, but she felt John’s departure deep in her bones as anxiety began to build. She hadn’t seen Mary since the day she almost killed Sherlock. The day she’d left Irene at the hands of John Watson.

Irene stared down Mary as the tip of her sword dug into the small of the blonde’s back. Mary squirmed under her blade, and Irene was filled with such intense pity that she almost offered to help the woman to her feet.

“Come on, birdie,” Mary crooned. “Come on. Let me up. You know you won’t kill me.”

“I will.”

“I don’t think so. Do you want to know why?”

Irene put her foot between Mary’s shoulder blades and pushed, forcing the blond woman to the ground.

“No.”

“Because you love me, birdie.”

“You don’t _deserve_ it.”

“I love you, too, you know.”

Irene’s stomach twisted, and she raised her sword. The blade sunk cleanly into Mary’s back, scraping against the cobblestone under her body.

 _“Liar,”_ Irene spat, tears dripping slowly down her face. Wiping her cheeks, the woman wrenched her weapon from Mary’s flesh and ran off to join the larger fight. For the prince. For Sherlock.

For herself.

~*~*~

Magic cannot always be everywhere it’s needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so good to be posting again!! I've regained a lot of excitement for this fic as I near the end of it. There will be 17 chapters in total (how I wish it were an even number), and it'll all be posted before November.
> 
> I'm doing better now mentally, I think, than I was when I announced the hiatus. School is stressful, and college applications are a pain, but I'm in a much better place.
> 
> I can't thank everyone enough for leaving such lovely comments on the last update. I've saved them all, even though that chapter's been replaced with this one. I think I reread those comments every week or so just to put a smile back on my face. :) Thank you from the very bottom of my heart. <3
> 
> (This chapter was supposed to be longer than ~2k but I couldn't force it out of me or else it wouldn't be good enough to post. I figure after that wait, you deserve something good. Plus, I like Irene's POV.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited, but that's old news by now.

Moriarty’s Magic was not like John’s. John’s Magic had burned as it knit Sherlock’s skin and fused his bones back together. It was hot and fierce and furious, scorching through Sherlock’s veins and over his skin and through his muscles. It hurt like nothing Sherlock had ever experienced, but there was a sort of comfort in the way the fire licked at his fingers as it healed him.

Moriarty’s Magic was cold, like ice water dumped over his head. It crept up on Sherlock like a surprise, and its cold fingers wrapped around his legs, forcing him closer and closer to the edge of the window. Moriarty’s laughter rang in his ears, and Sherlock took a deep breath as his feet met open air.

Had Sherlock been granted more time to think as he fell a hundred feet to his death, his thoughts might have wandered to the family he’d failed to save, the citizens he’d led to certain death, the knight he’d kissed much too little. He might have laughed, even, as he recalled a similar occurrence so far away and so very, very long ago. But, as it turns out, the prince had very little time to reflect on his (agonizingly dull) life after Magic forced him out the window.

Instead of ending up a dark stain on the cold grey cobblestone below, Sherlock found himself very much alive, surrounded by complete darkness. He yelped as his hand touched the floor - it was wet and muscly and moved away at his touch. The stench was the worst of it - rancid meat and something burnt lingering behind that. Sherlock held his breath as his world tilted, and the great mouth opened, sending him spilling out onto the pavement.

Sherlock didn’t have the skill set to name the emotions running through him. He thought John might have a clue where to start, so he tried to articulate like the knight would.

“Mycroft, you great fucking idiot, what are you doing?!”

The dragon blinked at him, apparently not in the mood to answer dull questions. Sherlock sighed, exasperated, and ran a hand through his hair, which he immediately realized was a grave mistake.

“I’m covered in your saliva!”

Once again, Mycroft opened his huge jaws. Sherlock’s hair ruffled with the force of Mycroft’s heated breath, and he grimaces even as his body dried. He was left cross and smelling like the diet of an _animal._

“Bring me back to Moriarty,” he demanded, his brow furrowed. “I’m not running up those stairs if _you_ can fly me up there.”

Silently, Mycroft opened his mouth. Sherlock nearly screamed. The dragon closed his mouth with a sharp _click,_ and blew air from his nose. Sherlock gasped.

“Are you laughing at me?” he demanded. “We don’t have time for this!”

Still smiling away, Mycroft grabbed Sherlock in one huge paw and leapt into the air. The younger prince shivered as cold wind rushed past him and screamed as Mycroft threw him back into the tower through the window he’s been forced out of. He landed in an embarrassing heap in front of Moriarty, who sat in his throne like nothing had even happened. Sherlock hated him.

“Hello!” the man sang, a smile spreading across his face. “Welcome _baaaack._ I _thought_ dear brother would save you! He _al_ ways does.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped ineloquently.

“It’s much too bad you couldn’t do the same for… oh, what was his name?”

“Stop it.”

 _“Sher-_ something. Not Sher _lock,_ of course, that’s you.”

“Stop it!”

“Can’t really blame me, can you? He really wasn’t all that important, anyway, you know. Not the eldest, not the smartest… Just a child.”

“You killed him.”

“Big brother tell you that?” Moriarty laughed. “Don’t tell me! Of course he did. I see.” Moriarty stood and drew his sword. Sherlock did the same. Moriarty waggled his eyebrows. “Oh! I see _someone_ is happy to see me.”

Sherlock wanted to kill him.

Sherlock _would_ kill him.

Moriarty’s Magic blossomed in his open palm, green and red and black and terrible.

“If you need Magic to kill me, you must not be very good with your sword,” the prince commented, tightening his grip on his weapon.

“You’re the first partner to complain,” Moriarty quipped, his grin manic. “Do you really think I was trying to kill you? That bit with the window? Oh, dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. You’re not as clever as I thought.”

Sherlock scowled. “This won’t work on me.”

“You don’t even _know_ what won’t work, _doofus!_ I was just playing with you, you know! _Playing._ I thought you liked games.”

“I don’t consider attempted murder a game,” the prince replied, “though I find it interesting that you do.”

 _“Sheeeer_ lock,” Moriarty sang. “You’re talking too much. Don’t you do anything _fun?_ Don’t you get _bored?”_

“Yes, of course, all the time,” Sherlock replied easily. _“Obviously._ It’s all very dull. Unfortunately, it is necessary.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’m stalling.”

_“What?!”_

“You’re not as clever as I thought!” Sherlock parroted, his own lips quirking. “Oh, dear. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a shame.”

“Ah-ah, Sherlock, it’s not fair,” Moriarty warned. His friendly smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Two against one. It has to be fair.”

“Don’t you like playing the game?” Sherlock asked innocently, raising his longsword.

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed, and he snarled, showing off white teeth.

“It’s that little _pet_ of yours, isn’t it?” the man spat. “Oh, Sherlock, no! He’s not _anything._ You could do so much better.”

The prince swallowed the angry response rising in his throat, instead advancing upon Moriarty, his sword gleaming in the morning sunlight. Moriarty grinned.

Sherlock fell into the defensive role, as Moriarty didn’t stop swinging for a moment. The prince’s swordsmanship was rusty; he hadn’t had the last five decades to practice. His sword, far from feeling foreign in his hand, still moved clumsily through the air as he blocked Moriarty’s blows.

“Why does _he_ matter?” Moriarty insisted, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke. Why is _he_ important?!”

“Jealous?” Sherlock snapped. He twisted his sword and managed to catch Moriarty’s shoulder with the blade. “Doesn’t seem like you.”

“You’ll regret that, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m sure.”

Magic swirled around Moriarty for just a moment before closing around Sherlock’s ankles and wrists. He yelped as he toppled to the floor, his head cracking against polished marble.

“I will _burn you,”_ Moriarty sneered, standing over him, his sword at Sherlock’s throat. Magic wrapped around his arms and neck, holding him back, suffocating him. The edges of his vision turned black, and Moriarty continued, “I will burn the _heart_ out of you, and I’ll start with your little pet. The silly little knight who calls himself a Magician. I thought killing your brother would have been _enough.”_

Magic tightened around Sherlock’s neck once before the pressure was suddenly relieved. He gasped and choked, desperate for air to fill his lungs. Someone was shouting his name and Moriarty was screaming and everything rang in his ears. He blinked slowly, his body heaving with every new breath. Sherlock’s eyes focused, and his heart nearly beat out of his chest.

John lay groaning on the floor, black mist swirling ominously around him, lightning crackling and sparking throughout.

Sherlock called the knight’s name, but John didn’t move.

~*~*~

John hadn’t given it a second thought before bursting into the tower, throwing the doors open wide. Why Moriarty had chosen the tallest, most secluded tower escaped the knight’s reckoning. Even despicable human beings like James Moriarty wouldn’t jog up thirty or so flights of stairs just to sit on a throne.

Apparently, they would.

John’s chest was heaving, his breath coming to him in short, quick gasps. Without more than a moment of hesitation (he only had to catch his breath), he threw open the doors to the tower.

Until then, John had considered Sherlock as good as dead. No one could survive a fall from that height. Until then, John had been ready to die fighting Moriarty. Until then, he hadn’t thought of Mycroft.

Sherlock’s name had barely left his lips before he was on his knees, his whole body revolting. His organs were pulled from his torso, his muscles twisted painfully, his skin burned with a brand all over. John let out a pitiful yell, his eyes closed tightly. His only comfort seemed to be that Moriarty was in more pain than he was.

Good.

The nerve of him. Hurting Sherlock Holmes _again._ He had done more than enough damage.

John wanted to kill him.

John _would_ kill him.

If you asked John about what happened that morning in the tallest tower of the Holmes Castle, he would forget to mention the fainting.

When he came to, Sherlock was struggling to his feet, watching in awe as Moriarty began aging rapidly, bright white Magic surging around him. Slowly, slowly, Magic dissipated, leaving John, once again, terribly and totally alone.

Sherlock knelt next to him. The prince’s eyes were locked on Moriarty, but his hands were gentle as they patted John over, searching for wounds where there were none. Magic, it seemed, had left a parting gift.

Sherlock’s fingers slowly traced the new scars on John’s cheeks.

“Mary,” was all he said, the word spit out like poison.

“Yes,” John replied. “You jumped out of the window.”

Sherlock just shook his head. “Mycroft caught me. He always does.”

“We’ll have to thank him,” John muttered, more to himself than anything else.

“Such a sweet little pet, Sherlock,” Moriarty croaked, gaining their attention. “I had some of my own, but none so clever as your little knight.”

The pair could barely reply, their mouths open in shock.

Moriarty stood before them, his hair white and his face wrinkled. His eyes, dark and bottomless, narrowed, and a shiver ran down John’s spine.

“You don’t look a day over fifty-six,” Sherlock quipped, and John had to stifle a laugh.

Moriarty seethed.

“Is it still a fair fight?” Sherlock whispered, and John bit his thumb to keep from laughing.

“We can’t giggle! We’re in battle, you dolt.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to laugh, only he didn’t even _try_ to hide it.

Moriarty let out a wordless shout, his aging face turning red.

“You can’t laugh at me!” he shouted. “You can’t do that!”

Sherlock grinned. John loved his smile.

Although Moriarty’s age had caught up with him, he still moved as if he were as young as John. His sword flew through the air, clashing against Sherlock’s, and John wasted no time joining the fight. It was some time before any one of them was hit; John gasped as Moriarty’s sword grazed his neck. Sherlock barely glanced at him. The prince fought with an intensity John hadn’t seen before; his brow was furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, sword a blur in the air.

Moriarty grinned as he turned to focus on Sherlock. (John couldn’t blame him.) John willed Magic to heal him, frowning when nothing happened. A slow, thin line of blood trickled down his neck and into his armor. The blade had barely broken his skin.

John longed for his bow, for the surety of his arrow lodging itself in Moriarty’s heart, but he hesitated before drawing. Magic was gone. He had no way to guarantee he wouldn’t kill Sherlock instead.

So John rejoined the fight, along with, it seemed, a number of Moriarty’s lackeys. The women, eyes clear and alert, were clad in matching armor, maces and swords glinting in the sunlight.

“Not exactly fair, is it, Moriarty?” Sherlock questioned.

John sighed. The three women drew their weapons.

If John were a lucky man, he would say they could be easily swayed to join his side.

But John did not have Magic. He was struggling enough as it was, and he hadn’t really done much other than run into the room and fall on his arse. John didn’t have the time nor energy to charm three women into turning on the man they had, presumably, served loyally for over half a decade.

The knights John dealt with easily. He had been caught once on his bad shoulder with a mace, and a spear has pierced his thigh (though thankfully nowhere important). John couldn’t tell if the blood on his face was really his.

He parried, sending the sword of the last knight clattering to the floor. He raised his own weapon, preparing to incapacitate her or worse, when Sherlock’s wordless scream rang through the tower, setting every hair on John’s body on end.

He spun around to check for damage, his knee twinging, and felt the weight of the world fall off his shoulders as he saw Sherlock kneeling over Moriarty’s prone body.

“You killed him!” Sherlock shouted, tears flowing freely. “He was nine, and you killed him!” The prince sunk his sword through Moriarty’s stomach. Blood puddled beneath the man’s body and bubbled up out of his mouth. Dark eyes blinked owlishly. Red lips and teeth smiled manically as Sherlock sobbed. “It should have been me!” Finally, Moriarty was still, his eyes blank and staring into the space past Sherlock’s shoulder. “You should have killed _me!_ Why didn’t you kill _me?”_

“Sherlock,” John called softly. “Sherlock. That’s enough. He’s dead.” The knight paused, glancing behind him. The surviving knight was gone, her weapons abandoned on the floor. “You did it,” John continued. “You killed him.”

John gently removed the weapon from Sherlock’s blood-covered hands. The prince offered no resistance, wrapping his arms around John the moment his hands were free. His whole body shook with the force of his sobs. John’s heart broke for him.

“You’re all right,” John comforted, cradling the prince in his arms. “It’s all all right now. You’re all right.”

As if he were handling glass, John began surveying Sherlock for injuries. Other than a nasty bump on his head and an angry gash on his bicep, there seemed to be nothing obviously wrong with the prince. He sighed, dug into his medical kit (an army doctor until the end), and manhandled Sherlock into a bandage.

“Anywhere else I should see?”

Sherlock shook his head, and John let out a relieved breath.

He lost track of how long they sat there, Moriarty’s corpse still bleeding only inches from them. John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, sweaty and sticky with blood.

The fighting outside had long since ended, and shouts of joy drifted up to the tower. There came shouting from the other side of the door, and John closed his eyes. He’d known, eventually, that they would be found. He’d only hoped Sherlock would have a bit more time to calm down before he faced his kingdom.

The sun was high in the sky when several of London’s knights strode into the room, swords drawn and scowls etched on their faces.

“Riley, find the other parties and tell them we’ve found Prince William,” said their leader, cautiously stepping forward. “Prince William, Your Highness-”

“He’s all right,” John offered. Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle since the doors had opened. “I fixed him up.”

“Step away from him,” the knight ordered, narrowing his eyes at John. Apparently, the knight had selective hearing.

“I’m really nothing to worry about,” John assured. Still, he tried extracting himself from Sherlock’s hold, but the prince only gripped him tighter. He dropped a messy kiss on John’s lips, glaring at the knight who’d ordered John to move. John blushed to the tips of his ears.

“Mycroft’s somewhere outside,” he offered. “Have you found the King and Queen?”

The knights nodded dumbly, and Sherlock froze. He very gently removed himself from John’s embrace and stood on shaky legs.

“Do they know?” he asked, dried tears decorating his pale face. “About Prince Sherrinford. How much do they know?”

The knight grimaced.

“They are distraught, Your Highness. Your mother… she would not stop screaming.”

“My father?”

“Hasn’t said a word since. They do not yet know that you are alive, nor Prince Mycroft.”

John struggled to his feet. He was beginning to feel a bit light-headed.

“Find Mycroft,” Sherlock ordered, his voice unlike John had ever heard it, tight and stern. “Find my brother and take me to my parents.”

“Wilson, Wiggins - do as he says,” said the knight in charge. “You! You never said your name.”

It took John a minute to realize the knight was talking to him.

“What?” he asked. He had always been good with his words.

“Your name?”

“Oh. It’s John,” the blond replied, swallowing hard. “Sir Watson of, ah, Northumberland Fusiliers… fifth… ah…”

The last thing John saw before his vision turned black was Sherlock’s retreating form, not casting even a glance over his shoulder as John hit the floor.

~*~*~

He needed clothes. Dear God above and all that was holy, he _needed clothes._

Mycroft was currently hiding, and for good reason. Thankfully, he’d been on the ground when the curse was broken. He imagined losing his wings in the air, fainting from he burning pain in his bones as they cracked and creaked and shrunk until he was human again, landing with a sickening thud on the pavement, naked, his people surrounding his mutilated body.

Sherlock used to accuse Mycroft of having no imagination, but Mycroft had always thought he fared well enough.

Sadly, he couldn’t imagine himself _clothes._

If he could only keep anyone from seeing him until he found clothing or, at the very least, something to cover himself,  then all would be well. Everything would be fine. He would find clothes, find his brother, and find his parents, in that order. He would return to the castle, make sure his people were truly safe, and learn how to walk on two legs again. He would do all that, and everything would be fine - as long as _no one saw him._

He ducked between two houses, cursing himself and the disappointing lack of shadows to hide in. Damn the sun. Damn the winter cold. Damn the bloody dragon.

“Mate!” a gruff voice called. Mycroft wanted to die. He didn’t turn around, even as the voice continued, “I know it’s nearly spring, but it’s not warm enough for this.”

“Certainly not,” Mycroft huffed, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m quite aware this is not the time to be nude. I have been divested of my clothing against my will.”

“Ah. You live ‘round here, then,” the man mused. Mycroft turned to glare at him, but found the sour look on his face disappearing as he took in the man who found him.  Warm brown eyes and a bright smile and stubble on his cheeks and-

He would ignore the handsome (and handsome didn’t even begin to describe him) man  until he went away, and everything would be fine.

“Pardon?”

“You’ve got the dumb posh accent.”

“I what?”

“Did you hit your head or something?” the man laughed. Mycroft knew then how weak of a man he truly was. There was an attractive man with a beautiful laugh standing in front of him, and Mycroft, as bare as the day he was born, blushed to the tips of his ears as the man continued, “Do you have other clothes somewhere?”

“No,” the prince replied, his face burning. “I would appreciate either some help or some dignity, so if you could make yourself useful…”

The man grinned. “No worries, mate. We’ll preserve your modesty yet.”

They stood there for a few minutes, staring at each other intently. There was something familiar about the man, in his kind smile and tired eyes and tanned skin, but Mycroft’s mind was elsewhere.

“I’m in quite a bit of a hurry,” he prompted, and the man motioned for him to follow.

It was interesting, watching the man break into a house just to steal him some clothes. He stuck his tongue out as he picked the lock, dark brows furrowed in concentration. Mycroft considered him once more. The man was a noble one, though in intentions rather than blood, a brother and leader, though not a father or husband. He wore bulky iron weapons and cheap leather armor and laugh lines that only served to make him more attractive.

Mycroft was doomed.

Suddenly, the man groaned. “I never was much good at this,” he explained, casting Mycroft a sheepish grin before he turned and kicked the door in.

Mycroft was _doomed._

The prince didn’t say a word as he entered the house, leaving the other man in the kitchen in favor of searching for a closet. He found one in a bedroom on the second floor, and he picked through the clothes carefully, none of it quite meeting his standards.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter what he wore when he was finally in his parents’ arms, as long as it actually covered him. Mycroft had just pulled on a pair of trousers when he noticed it.

There was no real reason to stand frozen in the middle of the room, staring blankly into a standing mirror that had caught his eye, but he found himself doing exactly that. Mycroft cocked his head, his mouth tightening, as he took in the new scars on his too-thin body: two on his stomach, one over his shoulder, and (the most obvious of the lot) one stretched over his left eye, still angry and red after all these years.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to look away.

A small cough came from behind him, and Mycroft met wide brown eyes in the mirror.

“It dawned on me, just downstairs, that you might’ve been the dragon I saw flying about out there,” the man said, stepping hesitantly into the room. “I haven’t seen you before, and I know almost every person out there. The dragon disappears, and I find an unfamiliar man without clothes hiding between houses, and it takes me a while to put it together because I’ll be the first to admit I’m not a genius. But I’m not an idiot, is the thing. So either I’m wrong and you’re just a bloke out for a stroll in the nude, or I’m right and you’re the dragon, which makes you the crown prince. Doesn’t it?”

Mycroft turned, covering his stomach with his forearms (leftover self-consciousness from _fifty-six years ago,_ damn it), and met the other man’s eye.

“Clever,” he replied. “So you know who I am.”

The man just laughed. “That’s brilliant. Are you all right? Tired or hungry or something like that? You’ve been a dragon for half a century.”

“My brother would argue that I’m always hungry,” Mycroft quipped, “but I’m all right at the moment.”

“Your brother Sherlock.”

Mycroft cocked his head. “Yes. Prince William.”

The man’s smile disappeared. Mycroft turned away, glared at himself in the mirror, and continued rifling through the closet. He felt the man’s eyes on his back, and he wondered if he had more scars there.

“I don’t suppose you’re as enamored with commoners as he is?”

That startled a laugh out of the prince, and he felt a small smile pull at his lips.

“I have no frame of reference,” Mycroft replied. He pulled a thin white shirt on over his head, grateful for the extra layer of protection it granted him. “But I have more tact than he does, if that means anything.”

“You can do the whole diplomacy thing more successfully, I imagine, Your Highness.”

“Without question. You’ve spoken to him. You would know.”

The man was silent. Mycroft turned to look at him, fussing with the hem of his shirt.

“I don’t know your name,” he said. “Seeing as you know mine…”

“Right, yes, I’m Greg.” He bowed, and Mycroft frowned. “Greg Lestrade. New Scotland.”

“Prince Mycroft Holmes, formally,” he returned, offering his hand. “Mr. Lestrade, I find that people are not often kind to Sherlock, not genuinely. Call me Mycroft. I’ll hear nothing else.”

Greg smiled brightly. “He’s a good man. It’s good to know who’s in the castle for once. I think Rosalie and I are the first in the family to _see_ the royal one.”

A blush crept its way up Mycroft’s neck and spread over his cheeks.

“Yes, you’ve seen quite a bit of the royal family,” he muttered.

“Ah, nothing important,” Greg assured, dismissing Mycroft’s embarrassment with a wave of his hand. “Let’s get you to the castle, yeah? Curse may be broken, but I don’t think Moriarty’s quite finished yet. Your brother-”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock won’t let Moriarty live, and John won’t let Sherlock die. He’s perfectly safe.”

“You’re not worried?”

“If I were able to think of Moriarty with anything but contempt, I might even feel pity for him. I trust that John will keep my brother safe from harm.”

“Let’s get going,” Greg replied, nodding decisively. “By the time we get to the castle, everything will be over and done with.”

“I am eager to return. There is much to be done,” Mycroft replied as he followed Greg out of the house. “Rebuilding London will take decades.”

“If we’re lucky, everything’ll go back to how it was before.”

“Mr. Lestrade, how much do you remember from _‘before?’”_

“Oh, just _Greg_ is fine. Ah, let’s see. I remember being happy, more or less. Not with taxes or all the women trying to marry my little sister, but content with everything else. Good house, good job, good kingdom, good King.” Greg shrugged. “Everyone loved - _loves_ \- the King. After your grandfather died… Well, everyone was sorta worried, you know, about what the next King would be like. Your da, though, everyone loves him. So everything will work out. Everyone’ll work towards it. It’ll be a golden age before you know it, Mycroft. You might even be King for it.”

“That’s… comforting, Gregory. Thank you.”

“Anyone else would tell you the same.”

Mycroft remained silent, slowly mulling over Greg’s words. Thankfully, they hadn’t been too far from the castle to begin with, and suddenly they were standing before it, the walls high and imposing and achingly familiar.

Turning to Greg, Mycroft carefully offered, “There will be people… _needed_ to oversee reconstruction. If you or any of your people are interested in a government position, you need only express it.”

Greg smiled. “It’s not even been an hour, and you’re offering me a job?”

“Yes. You are a good man. Good men make the best leaders.”

“You think so?”

“I do.”

“Then I think you and Sherlock will make the best leaders we’ve ever had,” Greg replied, his voice firm. “I have to find my sister, check everyone for injuries. If you find John in there, send him out. We could use him as a medic.”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. “You have my thanks. I am in your debt.”

Greg grinned, and a blush formed high on his cheeks. “I couldn’t very well let you go traipsing around without any clothes, could I?”

Mycroft felt a smile pull at his lips.

“Until next time, Gregory.”

“Yeah, ‘til then.”

Greg turned and jogged away, stopping to check the pulse of a man dressed in similar garb. The prince tore his eyes away and took one more look up at his beloved home before rushing inside.

He needed to find his brother.

~*~*~

It was like waking up. Violet blinked owlishly, slowly taking in her surroundings. She was in the ballroom, wearing a gown of blue silk made for her middle son’s eighteenth birthday. The ballroom was in ruins, embellished curtains and sashes strewn about the polished marble floor, tables and chairs overturned, one wall of windows completely shattered. A lonely, shattered mirror stood next to the thrones at the head of the ballroom. Next to it lay a little pile of broken stone.

Her husband, looking just as confused as she felt, stared at Violet with wide silvery eyes.

“Vi,” he breathed, “where is everyone? Where are the boys?”

“It was Moriarty,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “It must have been. You saw what he did to Sherlock. Oh- Oh, _God,_ Siger, where are they?”

“We’ll find them,” Siger assured, taking her in his arms and tucking his head into the crook of her neck. “We’ll find them. They’ll be all right, I promise.”

“But Moriarty-”

“We’ll find him and deal with him then,” Siger replied. He leaned away, gripping Violet’s elbows tightly. “I’ll get Hawkins. You find Wiggins. Do you have a sword under there?” he asked, pulling at her skirt.

Violet let out a small laugh before pushing her husband away. “No, no! We’re at a ball. _Were_ at a ball. Why would I bring my sword?”

“Safety,” Siger offered with a shrug. “You find the armory, and then find Wiggins. Stay safe. I love you.”

“I love you,” she replied.

No sooner had they decided to leave than the ornate ballroom doors burst open, Hawkins standing there, his sword drawn, surrounded by a small number of London’s knights.

“Your Majesties,” he called, bowing deeply. “You have our deepest apologies; we were not in our right minds. If it were not for the witch’s Magic-”

“Hawkins,” Violet snapped, “kindly stop talking. Where are my sons?”

“The witch put Prince William to sleep, and we all have thought him dead until now. We were- rejoiced by it, when he were still under Moriarty’s control. Prince Mycroft he made into a beast, one seen flying outside not long ago.”

“And Sherrinford?” Siger prompted.

The man paled. “The witch turned you both and your youngest son to stone,” he explained. Violet’s heart sank, and her gaze wandered to the mess of stone by the shattered mirror. “Moriarty killed him, Your Highness.”

A scream tore itself from Violet’s throat, and she sank to her knees, her silk dress suddenly heavy, a weight she could no longer bear. She sobbed loudly as her husband joined her on the ground, his arms tightening around her. He offered no words of comfort, and Violet knew it was because he had none.

~*~*~

He knew not how long they wept, wrapped in each other’s embrace on the cold marble floor.

Hawkins had left to collect more knights and find their other two sons, and Siger was alone with his wife in an empty, destroyed ballroom.

His youngest son was head.

Siger had never been a man to hide from his emotions; tears fell freely, affection was often shown, anger always expressed. He let his tears fall now, travelling down his cheeks and soaking his wife’s greying hair.

He did not know how long they wept.

He knew only the strange concoction of relief, joy, and sadness still as his middle son entered the room. His hands were covered in blood, his hair a mess, his body thin, his face gaunt.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, his voice hoarse. He could find no other words. _“Sherlock.”_

Violet tore herself from Siger’s arms and reached towards Sherlock, stumbling on her fine dress. Sherlock ran towards them, collapsing as they hugged him tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chanted, his body shaking in their arms. “I should have protected him, I should have saved him I should have done-”

“My boy,” Siger interrupted, watching fondly as his wife peppered their son with kisses, smoothing down his curls and stroking his cheeks, “you’ve done nothing wrong. This isn’t your fault. It couldn’t be.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said anyway. “I should have been here sooner. I should have-”

“Oh, hush!” Violet snapped. “Listen to your father. None of this is because of you. You’re here now, Sherlock.”

“And Mycroft,” the prince offered, sniffling. “Mycroft is here but I can’t find him you need to see him he’s somewhere outside I don’t know I don’t know I-”

Siger was familiar with his middle son’s propensity for panic attacks; when Sherlock was a child, he’d had one nearly every week. Siger couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sherlock so worked up.

The prince froze as Siger pulled him close, kissing his temple and crying into his hair. His son quieted, breathing deeply against Siger’s chest.

“Just breathe, Sherlock. We’ll find Mycroft, or he’ll find us. He’ll be with us soon.”

Sherlock stuttered and cried about his brothers for a few more minutes, eventually falling silent, tears drying, body shaking in his father’s arms. Siger let out a tired sigh.

When the doors opened again, Violet began sobbing anew. Mycroft, looking thinner and more haggard than Siger had ever dared imagine, stalked into the ballroom, his head down.

 _“Mycroft!”_ Violet gasped, lurching to her feet.

Siger watched, his heart full, as their less than tactile son welcomed his mother’s frantic touches. She petted his hair and stroked his cheeks and gripped his shoulders, all the while nagging him like any mother would do in the presence of their eldest child.

“You’ve barely eaten, Myc, you’re too thin! Look at those clothes! What were you thinking, not taking care of yourself?” she questioned. “And what happened to you? Have you been in a fight? Are you hurt?”

Siger held Sherlock as Mycroft flinched, almost imperceptibly, his mother’s fingertips barely brushing over the scar on one eye.

“You’re blind!” she gasped. “Oh, it’s only one eye, but- Oh, Myc, it’s just so good to see you, darling. You know how your father worries.”

“Same to you, Mummy,” Mycroft replied. Gingerly, he put his arms around Violet, who had thrown herself over him in joy. “It’s been a very long time.”

“Were you awake?” Siger asked, furrowing his brows.

“I woke up almost two months ago,” Sherlock replied, his voice muffled against Siger’s chest. “Mycroft’s been awake the whole time, watching over me.”

Sherlock’s confession inspired new tears in both Violet and Siger; the former gripped Mycroft’s shoulders and said quite seriously, “You’ve done a splendid job. You’ve always been such a diligent big brother.”

“But Ford-”

“You kept Sherlock safe,” Siger interrupted. “None of us could have saved Sherrinford. It hurts to say it, but it's true. We couldn't have stopped that witch, couldn’t have changed his mind. You and Sherlock did nothing wrong.”

The boys didn’t seem too convinced, but they nodded anyway, their faces somber.

“Father, I-”

“Mycroft. I know what you’re about to say, and I’m telling you: you need rest. Both of you. Find your rooms, dust, and sleep. All right?”

“Mummy-”

“Your father is right,” Violet agreed. “We will take care of everything from here. You boys deserve a rest and something hot to eat. While the kitchens are being repaired, we only have the former. I suggest you take advantage of your resting period.”

The boys nodded, and Sherlock strolled out of the ballroom as if in a daze. Mycroft lagged behind, a pensive look on his face.

“Myc?”

“Mummy, there- if the name ‘John Watson’ appears on the list of the deceased… keep it from Sherlock. It wouldn’t do him any good to hear of it.”

Siger and Violet shared a heavy look. Siger knew his wife would be asking Mycroft about this fellow as soon as everything was settled. (Provided, of course, his name wasn’t on the list of the deceased.)

“Yes, dear,” she said. “Thank you.”

“We’re proud of you both,” Siger told him. “Get some rest.”

Mycroft nodded and exited the ballroom; it felt like all air was sucked out of Siger’s lungs. He would need to get over that, he thought absently. They couldn’t spend the rest of their lives being watched over by their father.

The doors had hardly banged shut when Violet turned to Siger, her voice tinged with forced casualty.

“Do you think he’s found someone? A friend?” she asked, her eyes giving away her burning curiosity. “You think he’s not so alone? Oh, I’d hate for him to have gone through all this alone.”

“Will you ever stop your matchmaking?” Siger asked, taking his wife’s hand as they left the ballroom. “They’re grown men.”

“Well, they’ll hardly find anyone on their own, will they?” Violet huffed. “I would like grandchildren. I _would_ like a wedding or two.”

“You want to host two weddings? In the state of this economy?” Siger teased, dropping a kiss onto his wife’s head.

They had only a few moments before they were once again the King and Queen of London, and they had only their sons to thank for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited!!! I /just/ finished chapter 17 last night, and I think I'm gonna up the posting to twice a week now just so I can post it all before November. Sooooooooo expect the next post on, like, Tuesday?
> 
> November!! I'm participating in NaNo again this year, which means I'll be working on an original novel all next month (and editing and all that in the following 3-4 months). So that's why I won't be posting as much here. If you wanna keep up with my original writing you can follow my very, very recently created writing account (as I one day hope to have, like, a fanbase and all that, though it's a lofty dream). On instagram, it's @echicks.author, and on here, it's just @echicks. I'll post my original work sometime in... March-April? Anyway, I'm super excited about that, too! I might say more of what it's about in a future post if anyone's interested, but it's also totally fine if you're not? I dunno. Don't feel like you have to follow me or anything, is what I'm trying to say.
> 
>  
> 
> Please leave a kudos or a comment if you're so moved. It always makes my day!! :)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unedited like always. I got so impatient so I'm uploading in the morning before school instead of a reasonable time.
> 
>  
> 
> *eternal screaming*

By the time Sherlock woke, the castle was infested with people. Medical tents had been moved to the castle halls, lest the injured die of frostbite, and doctors and their nurses were hurrying here and there, healing and stitching and comforting.

There were almost as many people in the castle hallways as the people who’d attended his eighteenth birthday feast. He stood staring at the commotion, feet stuck to the ground, until a woman with wavy red hair collided with his shoulder.

“Move out of the way!” she scolded, mouth twisted in a terrible frown. Sherlock cocked his head.

“Yes, apologies. I-”

“Prince William!” called a voice down the hallway.

“What is it, Hawkins?” the prince sighed, slowly closing his eyes.

The redhead let out a terrified squeak. “Your Highness! Please forgive me. I didn’t know-”

“No, you’re fine,” Sherlock assured absently, gently steering her away from himself. “It’s fine. You’re right. I think the soldiers need you, now, so run along.”

Stunned, the woman allowed Sherlock to dismiss her. The prince turned and met Hawkins, who bowed in greeting.

“Your brother and father requested I bring you to them when you woke.”

Sherlock hummed in response. Hawkins bowed again (and, really, only once was more than enough) and led him to his father’s study.

Mycroft and Siger stood over the King’s desk, each with a quill in hand, worrying over a roll of parchment between them. They looked up as he entered the room, and a bright smile lit up Siger’s face.

“You’re awake!” he cried. “You’ve been sleeping for two days.”

“I was tired,” Sherlock admitted.

“I thought your body was just transport,” Mycroft teased. Sherlock frowned. “Not teasing, brother mine.  _ Correcting.” _

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His brother had always been able to read his thoughts.

Sherlock,” his father began, pulling out a map of London, “you’ve been in the countryside recently, yes?” Sherlock nodded, and Siger continued, “We’re planning reconstruction, your brother and I. We’ll visit, of course, before we start anything major, but just for now, so we have-”

“Food,” Sherlock blurted. “They need food. Livestock. Houses remain mostly intact, though farms have been in better shape.”

Siger nodded. “Boys… your mother and I are immensely proud of you both. Sherlock, Mycroft’s let us in on all that’s happened in the last two months. You’ve proved yourselves more than worthy of responsibility in this kingdom. Mycroft, you’re heading reconstruction in the surrounding areas. Sherlock, you’ve got the country. I hear you have allies there.”

“Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down,” Mycroft assured.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my boy. Sherlock?”

The prince balked; he opened his mouth to speak but found himself speechless.

“I’ll be overseeing you boys, of course, while your mother takes care of the castle and knighthoods and all that. I trust you. The people trust you.”

Sherlock swallowed, blinking rapidly.

“Yes, Father. Thank you,” he agreed, his voice shaking more than he’d ever admit. As he turned to leave, he added, “I may have promised Northumberland aid in ending the war with Afghanistan.”

“Afghanistan!” Siger exclaimed, eyes widening as Sherlock shut the door behind him. The prince could hear his father’s questioning grow faint as he distanced himself from the study. “War in… didn’t know they…  _ Afghanistan!” _

Sherlock threw himself into his work. He barely slept, nights haunted by terrible visions, choosing instead to study maps of the smallest towns in London: Dewer’s Hollow, Musgrave, Norbury. He began composing letters to every leader he knew, telling of victory and rebirth and civic duty. The Golden Age, he said it was, if only they helped the royal family achieve it.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he had cared about his duty as the son of the King, but it was a good distraction, and he didn’t want Mrs. Hudson or the Lestrade siblings left in  _ Mycroft’s  _ care. Sherlock had to do it himself.

He studied maps by candlelight, devised economic plans by the light of the sun, and allowed everything else to fade away. Every now and then, food would be left at his side, only to be taken away hours later, cold and uneaten. Sherlock was sure his older brother had been in at least once to scold him, but he’d ignored it like he always had before this whole  _ mess. _

It went on like this for weeks: Sherlock working himself to the bone despite the concern of his mother and father. It wasn’t his fault, not really. He watched them as they pleaded with him to sleep, but their voices were too muffled to hear.

He couldn’t sleep now. Didn’t they understand? He couldn’t go a minute without thinking about Ford, waiting for his little brother to burst through the library doors with his wooden sword, demanding Sherlock’s attention; he couldn’t go a minute asleep without being awoken by blood and fangs and death, John’s name on his lips.

_ John. _

Sherlock hadn’t even remembered the knight until he woke up screaming. He was still in the library, moonlight streaming in through the windows, drool ruining one of the best proposals he’d written so far. Tears dripped slowly down his face, and his breaths came in heaving gasps, his heart beating nearly out of his chest. Sherlock staggered away from his desk and leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was curled up in a ball on the floor, his body shaking.

Sharp fangs sunk into his leg, and Moriarty’s blade sliced his bicep, and Mary’s dagger plunged into his stomach, over and over and over. He dug his fingers into the scars on his leg, hoping to ground himself with the pain, but that only made it all worse. He could smell the fresh blood and rancid breath and -  _ where’s John? _

He’s  _ not here can’t see can’t hear can’t reach him- _

There’s blood on his hands and he can’t get it off get it off get it off soaking his fingers and settling on his skin and seeping into his bones.

Outside. John had to be outside, fighting those things, but he would die, he was going to die, going to be ripped to shreds, going to leave and he couldn’t leave, not when Sherlock needed him, and there was a dull thud and a crunch and Sherlock didn’t know if the scream torn from his throat was really his but still he screamed and screamed and screamed and-

And he woke up in the library, his throat raw and his hand resting in a puddle of spilt ink.

“John?” he croaked, his voice echoing in the empty library.

Lights streamed in through the open windows as the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky. Sherlock squinted in the sunlight before burying his head in his hands. He shuddered, and tears began to fall.

“Sherlock? What are you still doing here?”

The prince’s heart sank.

“Piss off, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed and pulled Sherlock’s hands from his face.

“You’ve got ink all over yourself. You look like a mess.”

“You always know hot to make a man feel special,” Sherlock grumbled, tearing his hands away. “Leave me alone, Mycroft.”

“You need to get out of this room.”

“I need  _ John.” _

Mycroft pursed his lips, fingers tapping against Sherlock’s table. Morse code. Old habit.

“We worry about you, Sherlock. Even I do. Constantly.”

“I know. And?”

“You haven’t mentioned John in weeks,” Mycroft said. Sherlock sat back, furrowing his brows. “He’s gone home.”

“But I’m still here,” the young prince replied, his voice soft. “He went home? To Lauriston?”

“He-  _ We _ all thought you’d… replaced him.”

“Idiots, all of you.”

“It’s happened before.”

“Not to  _ John,”  _ Sherlock insisted. “I got sick of hunting, of lessons, of the sun and the stars and the moon, but never  _ John.” _

Mycroft stood motionless before him, his back rigid and his jaw clenched. Sherlock stared blankly at his older brother, not daring to move.

“Of course,” Mycroft agreed stiffly. “My apologies.”

“You can’t replace  _ people. _ What were you all thinking?”

“We were thinking that, in the three weeks John was here waiting for you to call on him, you never did. We were thinking that perhaps you had a reason for holing yourself up in here all day that  _ didn’t _ involve negotiations or economic plans or reconstruction, that you might want John to take the hint and leave the palace, that you might want  _ us _ to take care of it so you wouldn’t have to.”

“You thought I wanted him to leave?”

“Mummy and Father insisted on keeping you unbothered. They feel that you’ve been through too much in the last two months, and they asked me to keep an eye on you. I didn’t want to put you in an undesirable situation. I’m the one who convinced him to leave this place.”

There was  _ anger _ , so much that it burned in Sherlock’s chest and scorched his lungs and made his heart beat  _ so fast too fast not fast enough,  _ but all Sherlock could feel was the weight of John’s absence. His stomach twisted as he imagined John waiting in the infirmary, in the impersonal guest rooms, staring up at the ceiling, waiting for Sherlock to call on him, ready to be at his side at a moment’s notice. That’s where he should have been. The knight should have been beside Sherlock all this time, but the prince was too stupid to realize it.

“Do you ever think, for all our intelligence, that we might be the most foolish men on Earth?” he asked, his eyes downcast.

“I think you might be,” Mycroft replied.

It took a moment, but a smile spread across Sherlock’s ink-stained face.

“What am I going to do without him?” he asked softly.

“We won’t have to find out,” Mycroft told him. “We shall retrieve him shortly, you and I.”

Sherlock’s smile grew until he was beaming like an idiot, not caring about the ink on his skin or the tiredness in his bones or the emptiness in his stomach. He jumped from his place at the writing desk, ignoring his ruined parchment.

The last thing he saw before he fainted was the worried look on Mycroft’s face.

He dreamed of John.

~*~*~

Lauriston had always been quiet. John could remember whole summers passing without drought, winters without blizzards, marriages without divorce, disagreements without violence. In fact, the most exciting thing about Lauriston had always been John’s relationship with Magic, and he didn’t even have that anymore.

Lauriston had always been quiet, but it had never been oppressive like this.

John found himself, once again, making rounds in the small town, a basket balanced on his hip. He limped slowly along, his leg twinging, his shoulder burning, his heart sinking with every step.

A child ran past him, dark curls wild, arms flailing, and knocked the laundry out of his hands. John opened his mouth to scold the boy but found the culprit already gone. The knight sighed and bent to pick up the clothes. It was then his leg decided to fail him, leaving him on his knees on a dirty cobblestone road, his face burning red in humiliation.

When John had returned home from Afghanistan, he had been called a hero. He begged them all to stop because he couldn’t save her, couldn’t save any of them. He was needed in Afghanistan. He had failed them.

When it became apparent John was not the same boy who had left Lauriston nearly two years prior, its residents wasted no time obliging him. John snapped and hissed and bit like a trapped animal, and they happily left him to his cage.

His sister (plus the bottle in her hand) had been the only one to keep him company. Harry had known what the others hadn’t. The war hadn’t changed John, not really. It had just made him stop  _ caring. _ And then he’d met Sherlock, and everything seemed to matter again.

John bit his tongue, unwilling to shed any more tears, born of frustration or love lost, but he couldn’t stop them from welling up his his eyes, threatening to spill over.

“John?”

_ Oh, God, no. _

“John Watson!”

_ It wasn’t. _

“What happened to you? Weren’t you off saving the world?”

_ It had to be. _

John nearly sighed as Mike Stamford approached, a dumb grin on his round face.

“That’s what you said last time,” he replied, wincing as Mike pulled him to his feet. “Consider it saved.”

“So where is Sherlock? Back in London, obviously, but why aren’t you together?”

John shrugged. “He’s a prince. He’s got things to do.”

“Sure, sure,” Mike agreed good-naturedly. He’d always been good-natured. John had only learned how to pretend. “Feel like coming to mine for lunch? Aline’d be glad to see you.”

“Mike, I dunno. I’ve got laundry, and…”

“Sod the laundry, mate!”

John let out a startled laugh, brushed the dirt off his knees, and agreed. Mike never offered to take the basket, nor did he hold out his arm for John to hold onto. He only walked at John’s sluggish pace, hands in his pockets as he talked John’s ear off about Aline (now pregnant) and their future daughter (Mike was adamant).

John had barely walked in the door before Aline bowled into him, clutching him tightly to her chest.

“John Watson, you  _ stranger! _ I thought we’d never see you around Lauriston again.”

“What made you think so?” John asked, carefully pulling away. “Thought I had a death wish?”

“Well, yes, but it wasn’t  _ that.  _ You and Sherlock-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” the knight pleaded, eyes fixed on the ground in front of his shoes. “He’s busy. Things to do. A kingdom to run. And I have Harry and both of you.”

Mike frowned. “Yeah, but… I thought there was something-” the man made a vague gesture with a flick of his wrist. “- _ with _ you two. You know.”

John’s chest tightened, and he shot Mike a fleeting smile.

“I know.”

“John-”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be fine,” Mike insisted. “This is just like when you got home before. You know you have us and Harry, even if she hates you at the moment.”

“And if you’re still not fine, you could always go back to London,” Aline cut in. “I’m sure Sherlock would love to see you again.”

John let out a sharp laugh. He could imagine it easily: Sherlock - dressed in gold and silver, starlight gems in his dark curls, fine silk draped over his body, skin immaculately clean - watching distantly as John groveled at his feet for- for what, exactly? Forgiveness? Affection? Love?

The knight hadn’t let himself say it aloud until his lonesome journey home, whispering to the snow-covered trees of his love for a certain curly-headed genius. The trees, silent and solemn like death itself, had not replied, leaving John alone with the weight of his words.

(“But. Obviously he didn’t feel the same,” he’d told the forest. “Obviously.”)

“No,” John refused now, his heart in his throat. “Back to London? To have him send me away again?”

Mike grabbed John’s arm over the table. “Wait. What did you say?”

“He sent you away?” Aline demanded, her eyes narrowed. “Sherlock? The one we met?”

“His brother did it for him,” John replied, gritting his teeth. “Offered me a rather large sum of money as  _ compensation. _ Like I was a damned-”

“Business partner?”

John only nodded. “I couldn’t take it. I just packed up my armor and left with the last of Northumberland’s regiments.”

“He didn’t tell you himself?” Aline asked. There was a certain sharpness to her words that reminded John of a well-polished sword, and he vowed then never to be on the receiving end of  _ that voice. _ “He didn’t say goodbye? Not once?”

“I didn’t see him after he killed Moriarty. I blacked out. Thought he’d be there when I woke up, at least, but he was busy.”

“With what?”

John shrugged, his voice measured very carefully as he spoke.

“His family,” he said. “His younger brother’s death. His kingdom. His people. Important things.”

“You’re important,” Aline argued.

John said nothing.

“Oh, John…”

“Don’t start.”

“I can’t help it,” Aline insisted. “I saw you two together. I saw the-” She made the same gesture as her husband had earlier. “And it’s a shame he was too blind to realize it.”

“Preoccupied,” John corrected quietly. “And there was no…  _ that.  _ What does that even mean?”

“You know what it means,” Mike replied, and it might’ve been teasing if his voice hadn’t sounded so somber. “Do you ever wonder why your Magic led you to him?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you that,” the knight grouched. “Magic just used me to get to Moriarty.”

Mike shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

“It’s gone,” John snapped. “Left as soon as we were in the same room.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

“So it can’t tell you you’re being a massive idiot,” Aline countered. “You should go back to London.”

“I should go back to sleep,” argued John. “Harry needs me to get these clothes returned. I need to get home.”

“That’s what we’re saying,” Mike insisted.

“London’s not my home.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

John pursed his lips, his jaw working. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stood, just for a moment, before walking determinedly out the door.

John had not lived very long, but he had learned very easily not to make homes in people. People leave. People die. People find other people. People break your heart and turn you away.

But everyone does things they shouldn’t.

Harry began berating him as soon as he arrived at their tiny house.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice tinged with worry.

“Went to Mike’s,” John answered.

“Thought you’d run off again.”

“Nowhere to go.”

“Not yet.”

John sighed, sinking into a chair. He wanted to deny it, to tell her he wouldn’t leave her again, but he found his lips sealed shut. Harry took the basket from him, setting it neatly on the ground before turning back to the wash basin. The only sound in the room was the faint splashing of water as Harry washed their neighbors’ clothes, humming softly to herself.

“I’ve not drunk anything, you know. Not since you left,” Harry blurted. “Well, not right after. I thought you were gonna die, Johnny. I thought, you know. Mum died in battle, and Da died from the drink, and since you were off on an adventure… I didn’t want to die by drink. Not here alone. That’s why I started back up when you came home. From Afghanistan, I mean. But then you left again, and now you’ll leave again, and I’ll be alone  _ again. _ And I don’t want to die here alone. Or drunk. So I haven’t had a drink since you left.”

John worked his jaw, his fingers restless against his thigh as he swallowed, his throat tight.

“I shouldn’t have left you here without anyone,” he said.

Harry didn’t even look at him. “Didn’t you hear me? I needed it. When you leave again, I’ll be fine. Hopefully.”

“I won’t be leaving again.”

“Yes, you will,” Harry argued with a laugh. “There’s always someone who needs saving, and you’ll always wanna save them, even when you shouldn’t.”

John drummed his fingers on his thigh once, twice, three times before getting to his feet with a muffled groan.

“You need help with that?” he asked almost shyly. Harry just gave him a look. “Sit down. Let me do something for once.” Tell me what’s happened while I was away.”

With a small smile, Harry told him of spring and disappearing snow, of Aline’s pregnancy and the birth of Bill’s little boy, of Old Nathan Wilkes, who finally returned to his son, of the turn of the war in Afghanistan, of the peace promised on both sides.

John returned the favor, recounting the journey, the battle, the week he’d spent in the infirmary, the week he’d spent trying to get Sherlock’s attention, the trek home that only took a few days. He told her that he had been sent away, and that he had been in love, was still in love, and that none of it really mattered in the end.

John felt his sister’s thin arms wrap around his waist, felt her cheek rest against his back. She sighed, and he followed suit, his body relaxing as she squeezed him tighter.

“I’m glad you’re back. I know you’re not, but I am.”

“Maybe. But I’m glad to have you.”

~*~*~

The trip to Lauriston, delayed almost a full week by Sherlock’s bedridden state (It turns out that unintentionally starving oneself had dire side effects.), was infinitely more comfortable the second time around, though Sherlock found it significantly less bearable for John’s absence. Snow had melted, leaving the forest path sodden and tricky to navigate. Several times they stopped, digging the carriage out of the mud and moving on. Mycroft and Sherlock had insisted on helping every time; they had each spent far too much time in the forest to have any qualms about mud.

The carriage was followed by two short lines of knights, sent by and loyal to Sherlock’s father. Their raucous laughter and chattering was almost comforting, providing the young prince with much-needed white noise. The silence of their carriage weighed on him heavily, threatening to choke him with every breath he took. Mycroft, who sat across from him, a book in his lap, didn’t seem to notice. The only question he’d asked, the only words he’d uttered, had been more senseless and tedious than Sherlock could handle.

“What are you going to tell him?”

Sherlock had replied with the one answer he knew would deter Mycroft’s line of questioning. (He didn’t think he was desperate enough to ask his brother for romantic advice.)

“The truth,” Sherlock said, and he retreated into himself, closing his eyes and asking himself over and over and over,  _ What are you going to tell him? _

It was a good question.

He didn’t know. He truly didn’t know. What would make John listen, make him come back to London and stay with Sherlock for the rest of their days, make him feel as strongly as Sherlock felt?

The days passed slowly. Sherlock was so restless he nearly crawled up the walls. He bounced his leg and drummed his fingers and tugged at his hair until Mycroft finally snapped at him.

When the carriage slowed, Sherlock nearly leapt out, thwarted only by Mycroft and his quick reflexes.

He’d never had those before.

As the carriage stopped, the prince’s chest tightened, his breath catching in his throat. There was Lauriston before him, just the same as it had been months ago, only the air a little warmer and the ground a little brighter, flowers bursting from the ground, blooming even in the solemn forest.

“You needn’t come,” Sherlock said, though he knew his brother wasn’t likely to listen. “I know my way from here.”

Like Sherlock had thought, Mycroft only frowned and followed him out of the carriage and into the small town. Sherlock’s heart beat wildly in his chest as they walked down familiar streets. He wiped his hands on his trousers, palms sweaty. Mycroft cast him a sideways look, but Sherlock didn’t meet his gaze.

They stopped in front of John’s home, Sherlock’s breath erratic, blood rushing in his ears. He had not allowed himself to entertain the very real possibility of John’s rejection, he he found his mind plagued with the knight’s unhappy face, his tired eyes and hard mouth and firm goodbyes.

“You’ll let me do this on my own.” It was a question, but it didn’t sound like one.

“Of course. You didn’t see him when he left, little brother,” Mycroft reminded. “We had never seen a man so distraught.”

Sherlock swallowed hard and, emboldened by his brother’s words, rapped his knuckles against the dark wooden door.

It wasn’t John who opened the door but his sister. Harriet Watson stood in the threshold, her eyes cold and her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Is John-”

Harry’s small fist shot out and clipped Sherlock’s jaw. If he had been any shorter, or she any taller, Sherlock was sure he would have lost a tooth. As it was, he stumbled back, leaning heavily into Mycroft and clutching his jaw.

“No. You don’t get to come back here and ask for him like he’s your…  _ pet, _ or- or something! You don’t get to do that. Not to John.”

“Harry, I-”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” she continued. “Not if you’re going to throw him away again in a month.”

“Please, just let me know. Is he home?”

“Out. He’s not here. I suggest you be gone by the time he returns.”

Sherlock’s stomach soured.

“I need to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

“I need to-”

“I don’t care if you’re the prince or a king or bloody God himself!” Harry shouted. “You didn’t see him when he came back. You’re not gonna take him away again. He doesn’t deserve it, and you  _ know _ it.”

Sherlock set his jaw, his fingers twitching, heartbeat erratic as Mycroft stepped forward.

“I can offer you very much, Ms. Watson. You  _ and _ your brother.”

“Oh, don’t think I don’t know about that! Johnny told me you tried to pay him. You couldn’t give me enough money to let you take him again.”

“Ms. Watson-”

“I’m done arguing. You don’t deserve him.”

With a glare, Harry closed the door. Had they come for any reason other than John’s forgiveness, Sherlock would have cackled at the stunned look on Mycroft’s face.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He hadn’t let himself imagine this.

He turned from the doorway and sunk to his knees, resting against the side of John’s small house.

The last time he was here, he looked up to find concerned blue eyes (impossibly blue) staring down at him, warm hands on his shoulders, his heart in his throat.

Had he loved John even then?

Sherlock could lie to himself. In fact, he was quite skilled at it and practiced it often. Before all this, he’d told himself that he wasn’t lonely, that he was content with his books and his notes and his library, that he didn’t need anyone else. Then he’d woken up and convinced himself that he was comfortable killing, that he wasn’t worried about Mycroft, that anger was the only emotion he felt about Sherrinford’s death. He had lied and lied and lied to himself about John. He was only seeking warmth when he wrapped himself around John at night. He had blushed only from embarrassment when the knight had walked in on his bath. He’d been so heartbroken when he found Shan all over John because John needed to focus on defeating Moriarty.

Maybe it was then that he’d stopped lying to himself. Maybe then he just hadn’t let himself see the truth.

He blushed, then, embarrassed by his own stupidity. Sherlock had loved John from the very start. It had only taken him nearly three months to realize it, and it was too late.

He’d lost Sherrinford, he’d lost John…

“Sherlock.”

He couldn’t help losing Ford.

“Sherlock.”

How had he let himself lose  _ John? _

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft was calling him. Dull.

_ “Sherlock!” _

“What?!” Sherlock snapped, sniffling. He wiped his eyes hastily. “What do you wa- Oh.”

Harry Watson stood in her doorway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

“Are those flowers?”

~*~*~

John had just finished his rounds (it was all he ever seemed to do) when he froze, heart thumping as cold, calculating eyes - one grey and the other clouded over - locked onto his.

Mycroft leant against John’s home, watching John with narrow eyes. The knight glanced at Sherlock, his body tense. Mycroft followed the look and shook his head minutely.

Sherlock - dressed in clothes that were plain and simple (nothing like those in John’s fantasies) and fitting in all the best places  _ (exactly _ like those in John’s fantasties) - stood in his doorway, speaking quietly with his sister. In one hand the prince held half-crushed, barely-bloomed wildflowers. John recognized them from the outskirts of Lauriston, flowers that grew only by the road between forest and field. He imagined Sherlock crouching in the mud, dirtying his regal clothes, carefully inspecting each flower before picking only the most perfect ones, and the image made his heart ache. Surely Sherlock felt the same way, loved John as much as John loved him. He wouldn’t be begging with Harry at their door if it were otherwise.

But Sherlock had sent him away. He would not be sent away again.

Courage drove John forward until he could hear exchanging words. John looked once again to Mycroft, whose gaze was fixed on Harry.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock cut him short.

“The apology first, and then the rest. And then the flowers, though those might make him hate me more.”

“They’re not even done blooming.”

“I know. I couldn’t wait for it to get warmer. Just please tell him. He doesn’t have to worry about me; neither of you will. I’ll stay away, if it’s what he wishes.”

Harry’s eyes roamed the sky. Before she could return her gaze to Sherlock’s, she caught sight of John over the prince’s shoulder. She tore her eyes away and stormed back into the house, leaving Sherlock staring at the dark wooden door, a rejected bouquet of flowers held closely to his chest.

Mycroft was staring straight at him.

“Prince William,” John greeted. He didn’t try to paste a smile on his face, perfectly fine with the scowl on his features. John’s heart sank as Sherlock flinched. It had been a low blow, but John didn’t particularly care. “Nice of you to visit us,” he continued. “What brings you here?”

Sherlock’s expression soured. The formality was killing him.

“Why do you think you have to address me like a stranger?” the prince asked.

“We’ve only known each other for a few months.”

If John had thought Sherlock in control of his emotions, he had been mistaken. Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears, and his face turned red, and his hands shook, knuckles white where he gripped the bouquet.

“No matter,” Sherlock replied, his voice thick. “You know you should call me Sherlock. You know me.”

“What are you doing here?”

“An apology and flowers,” Sherlock said. John’s heart stopped. “Isn’t that how it works?”

John shrugged, forgotten laundry basket in his hands.

“And the rest?” he asked.

The knight had never seen Sherlock so afraid (not even when they faced the hounds or Moriarty or even death itself).

“I love you,” the prince whispered, and it almost hurt John to hear it. How long had he wanted those words to fall from Sherlock’s lips? “I  _ love _ you. I don’t think I ever told you that. It was my mistake.” Sherlock swallowed hard, and John found himself watching the movements of the prince’s throat. “Maybe you’d have stayed if I told you.”

“Maybe,” John replied. “Maybe not.”

Sherlock’s face fell. “Right. Ah… I have… John, I don’t suppose you’d be open to coming back with me?”

“To Central London?”

“Yes.” The  _ obviously _ was implied.

“Why?”

“I need you there.”

“You only think that.” 

“Nonsense.”

“You can grow attached to people when there’s no one else around, you know,” John said. He couldn’t look at Sherlock when he said it. “We were alone, more or less, for a very long time, considering…”

“Considering what?” Sherlock asked, his voice tight and clipped.

“Considering… I dunno, Sherlock, that we could hardly trust anyone but ourselves?”

Sherlock pursed his lips, pink skin turning white. His cheeks, still red, burned in the cold spring sun.

“Just because there was no one else to trust doesn’t mean I can’t trust you,” the prince snapped. “And I  _ do _ trust you. More than I’ve trusted anyone.”

“No,” John agreed, “no, it doesn’t. It just means you’ve assigned feelings where none exist.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Sherlock demanded. John licked his lips (a nervous tick). “Because you’ll have to do a hell of a lot better to convince me.”

“Out of sight, out of mind, Sherlock. Yeah?”

“What?”

“What?”

“That last thing you said- is that new?”

John almost laughed. “If you can’t see me, you’re… you forget I exist.”

“False.”

“False?! Then why-”

“I made a  _ mistake,” _ Sherlock insisted. “I was wrong. I thought I could grieve by throwing myself into the kingdom, and in doing so I neglected you and my family.”

The knight deflated at the mention of family.

“Sherrinford,” he whispered.

“Sherrinford,” Sherlock affirmed. “You don’t have to return to London with me. You don’t have to accept the flowers or my apology. I wouldn’t wish to make you unhappy, John. Just know I loved you and love you still. I think of you constantly, imagine you by my side and in my- in  _ our _ bed, and… everything. Oh, come on, John, I can see you twisting my words around in your head!” The prince scowled, his pretty lips pulled into a tight frown. “I can picture you in the infirmary working as a physician or drilling knights in the barracks or helping me with diplomacy or reading by the fireplace in what  _ should be _ our room. I see you getting angry with me for staying up too late and getting stubborn about the clothes Mummy will make you wear and laughing at the foreign dignitaries while I deduce them. I want  _ you, _ John. The you in my head isn’t good enough.”

“Sherlock, I don’t… I can’t…”

It was suddenly very hard to breathe. Tears burned at the back of John’s eyes and throat, and his hands were white-knuckled, gripping the laundry like it held precious gold.

“Do you see?” Sherlock pleaded. “Do you see why I need you with me?”

“You’re going to crush my flowers,” John whispered. He didn’t trust himself to say anything important.

“I love you, John. I know you believe me, and I know you feel the same,” the prince accused. John froze. “I know. I can tell. Dilated pupils, eye contact, heightened interest, body language. If I took your pulse right now, it’d be pounding, wouldn’t it?” John licked his lips (a  _ really  _ nervous tick) and tore his eyes away from Sherlock’s, focusing on the cobblestones under his feet. “What can I do to prove it to you? That I need you with me? That I’ve never loved anyone like I love you?”

Sherlock’s grey eyes were desperate, wet with unspilled tears. His knuckles were white, hands gripping the bouquet within an inch of its life. Even now, he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen, all sharp angles and plush lips and curls dark as night. He couldn’t take his eyes off the prince’s face - so earnest and open and looking younger than John had ever seen it, full of hope and sadness and pure, unfiltered affection. Those full lips were open, parted just slightly, and John wanted to kiss him. Sherlock loved John, and John loved Sherlock, and John wanted to lose himself in it all. He wanted to run far, far away.

John debated with himself over what would hurt more: joining Sherlock only to be sent away again, or staying in Lauriston only to pine after the prince for the rest of his life.

The sadness in Sherlock’s face grew and grew (lips trembling, cheeks decorated with silent tears) until the weight of it sat heavy on John’s chest. Every second he waited was a second closer to Sherlock’s departure, his sauntering away from John for the last time.  _ Ever. _

“Kiss me,” John blurted.

“What?”

“Is that a new thing?”

Sherlock laughed  _ (oh _ , what a gorgeous sound), and John grinned.

“Mycroft’s right behind us,” Sherlock noted.

John shrugged. “He’s heard everything else.”

Sherlock winced as if it hurt him to remember. “Still…”

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

“No, that’s not-! Mycroft, go away!”

The knight couldn’t stop himself from laughing as the elder Holmes (always so stoic and somber) rolled his eyes before disappearing into John’s small house, taking John’s laundry basket with him as he went.

“You’re ridiculous,” John laughed. “I love you too, you idiot. I’ve loved you for so long it feels like forever.”

Sherlock beamed through his tears and cupped John’s face in his large hands.

“I love you, John.”

“I was only afraid. You weren’t- I didn’t think you wanted me there with you, and I don’t belong living in a castle, I’m just not suited for it-”

“John-”

“I didn’t want to overstay-”

“John! John, shut  _ up,” _ Sherlock laughed. “I’m meant to be kissing you right now.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” the knight replied, voice softer than it had any right to be.

“You won’t. I promise you won’t. I’ve lost you once. I can’t lose you again, John. I’ll go mad.”

“You know, you’re meant to be kissing me right now.”

Sherlock grinned and pressed his lips to John’s. It was a slow, closed-mouth kiss, and John’s eyelids fluttered closed as their mouths moved together. He rested his hands on Sherlock’s waist, tugging him closer. One nimble hand remained stroking John’s cheek, and the other moved to cup the back of his head and pull him deeper into the kiss. John poured his every emotion into Sherlock: his regret, his elation, his shame, his love. Sherlock certainly did the same, for John had never felt so precious as when Sherlock gently pulled away and left two delicate kisses on John’s eyelids.

John swallowed hard, and he gazed up at Sherlock in wonder.

The taller man smiled softly before resting his forehead against John’s.

“I love you,” he said. “Please come back to me. Come back to London.”

“Oh, God,  _ yes,” _ John cried, tears dripping down his face and laughter bubbling out of his chest. “I love you so much. More than anything.”

Sherlock laughed, a joyous sound that rang in John’s ears and in his heart.

“Oh, John,  _ thank _ you. I can’t live without you,” Sherlock maintained. “You’ll be comfortable in our home, I promise you. Anything you need- you’ll have it. Anything you want!”

“Anything I want?”

“I swear it.”

“Then kiss me again.”

Sherlock giggled, his smile bright and clear. John grinned back, and Sherlock’s ravenous lips took him once more.

When they finally broke apart, John rescued Sherlock’s bouquet from where it lay forgotten on the ground. He gave it a small smile and brought it inside, where he tucked one blossom in Sherlock’s dark hair and put the others in a vase on the windowsill.

“When do we leave?” he asked quietly, entwining Sherlock’s hand in his.

“Whenever you and Harry want. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t want to leave her. Neither do I.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him again.

“You’re perfect,” he said against the prince’s lips. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

Two days later, their meager belongings (mostly their mother’s old dishes and weapons) were packed and put away in the royal carriage, where Sherlock slept peacefully on John’s shoulder as Harry and Mycroft chatted about Central London and the Holmes Castle.

John had his sister and the love of his life and a family waiting for him in London, and he had never been happier. He wasn’t sure when he drifted off, but he knew he dreamed of dark curls and a blinding smile and perhaps even a wedding, if he remembered correctly.

He’d have to ask Sherlock about it when he woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW it's over!!! This has been, like, the last year of my life?? I probably won't write a fanfic this long for some time, and maybe not even for the Sherlock fandom. But I dunno. Anything could happen.
> 
> Follow my instagram account @echicks.author if you'd like to see my nano progress this year!! I'm going to be posting an original story on ao3 sometime in......... March/April? And I would love to see some familiar kudos or comments?? Dunno??? Thanks for listening to my annoying self-promo I'm just trying my best
> 
> Leave a kudos and a comment if you liked it, hated it, or have any criticisms.
> 
> This is not The End. There will be 2 more chapters after this one!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!!!

_ Epilogue _

~*~*~

Mycroft stood in front of the broken mirror, six grey eyes (three almost completely white) staring back at him. The mirror wasn’t theirs. It had never been in the castle before. Its frame was braided gold and silver and bronze, shining still. Moriarty had brought it, kept it spotless, and put it right next to the throne.

Surely the mirror belonged to the girl who had kept vigil over Sherlock while he slept in St. Bart’s tower.

“What am I doing here?” asked the man at his side.

“I enjoy your company,” Mycroft replied absently.

“Is that it?”

“Do I need another reason?”

Greg shrugged. “Not really.”

Mycroft nodded, mostly to himself, turning away from the mirror.

“I think she’s dead,” he divulged.

Greg raised his eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

“There’s been no trace of her since the battle and most likely a long while before that. Not a single person’s seen her inside the castle or out.”

“What happened? Was it Magic, then?”

Mycroft cocked his head. “No, of course not.”

“Come on, then, genius, explain it to me.”

“Look at the pattern- there’s the point of impact, with those cracks diverging from there. They all meet… right… here.” Mycroft poked the center with one finger. “See how much of the damage is centralized? He struck it with his fist, most likely, otherwise there might be residue on the mirror. But no. He was angry with the girl so he destroyed her mirror and, with it, her.”

“Magic-”

“Magic would have restored her. It restored everyone who was still alive.”

Greg nodded, and they were silent.

It was true that Mycroft enjoyed Greg’s company. The knight (recently made so) never felt the need to fill a space with useless chatter. He never pretended to understand what he did not. He never let his gaze catch on Mycroft’s scar.

It was less angry but still ugly, and even Mycroft couldn’t look at it for too long. His own discomfort had more to do with how he got it, images of sharp swords and spears and men he’d killed to save himself and his little brother. He remembered nearly dying in a snow drift, frozen and bloody and  _ pain pain pain. _

Even his mother had trouble keeping her eyes off it. It was born of concern, of course, so Mycroft didn’t let it bother him. The Londoners thought of it as a battle scar, something to honor, something to envy. Those who didn’t know the story, who’d stayed far, far away where they were safe from Moriarty, looked at it like it was some unsavory  _ thing, _ their faces pinched as if they’d bitten straight into a lemon.

Mummy had hinted, after Northumberland’s king and queen had left them, that Mycroft might want something to… cover it.

Mycroft wasn’t proud of the scar on his face (or the ones on his stomach and arms), but he wasn’t ashamed of it either. He’d pointed out that if Greg could see past the scar, surely King Zhi Zhu could learn to do the same.

“So, she’s dead,” Greg stated, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts.

“Yes, though I expect her physical body died long before now.”

“You mean that was her soul in there? Trapped in that mirror?”

Mycroft grimaced. “I admit I don’t understand much about Magic. The Holmes family has never possessed the predisposition the Watsons did.”

“So she could still be in there?”

“In theory, yes,” Mycroft argued. “But there’s little we can do for her if that’s the case. As far as I know, Magic is gone.”

“Because of John and Moriarty, yeah?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. Greg laughed.

“I  _ do _ talk to your brother sometimes.”

“Yes, because of John and Moriarty. I’ll have to do more research, but for some reason I doubt Sir Watson will mind helping me.”

“You really don’t have to threaten him, Mycroft.”

“He wants to marry my brother. Of course I have to threaten him.”

Greg laughed, and Mycroft felt a traitorous smile tugging at his lips.

“Well. You’d better get to it, then,” the knight said. “I promised Rosalie I’d help her bring supplies back to New Scotland, so… I’ll see you in a month or so, when I get back.”

“Your sister won’t be returning?”

“No, she wants to stay at home, help people she knows. But you already knew that.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Let me see you out.”

They walked from the ballroom down (recently) polished marble floors, through the courtyard now bursting with colorful flowers, and down to the castle gates. The pair leaned against the brick wall, Mycroft’s gaze roaming over the flowers, Greg’s locked on him.

“You haven’t asked me why I’m returning,” he said, and Mycroft turned to look at him.

“Perhaps I already know why.”

Greg grinned. “I doubt it.”

Mycroft straightened, narrowed his eyes, and spoke.

“You’re working closely with my brother. With Rosalie leading New Scotland from there and you advocating for them from here-”

“Yeah, that’s all well and good, but… we’re friends, yeah?”

Mycroft stiffened. “Of course.”

“And we’re also… working closely together. A lot, actually,” Greg replied. He took a deep breath, fingers twitching. “I wonder -  _ often _ \- whether you might be as enamored with commoners as your brother.”

_ Oh. _

“If you… If that makes sense.”

Mycroft nodded. “I might be.”

Greg looked up and grinned, his tan face beaming. Mycroft couldn’t help but to give a small smile back.

“Really?”

“Indeed, Sir Lestrade.”

“That’s- That’s brilliant!” Greg exclaimed. He smiled devilishly, dark eyes gleaming, and bowed deeply. “Until we meet again, Your Highness.”

With one last grin thrown over his shoulder, Greg wandered out of the courtyard and into the streets of Central London. Mycroft, absolutely  _ not _ pleased with himself, strolled back into the castle in search of one John Watson.

This was going to be fun.

~*~*~

Irene liked to climb the shelves in the library. She used to climb out the windows and sit on the turrets or dangle her legs off the ramparts, but she stopped doing those when Sherlock found her and not-so-gently reminded her that she no longer had wings, and John couldn’t fix a broken skull.

But John could fix everything else, and Irene was careful, and the shelves in the library weren’t nearly as high up as the castle’s towers, and there was no one to stop her.

She sat cross-legged on the edge of a bookshelf,  _ A History of Magic _ open on her lap, a quill between her teeth. She worried it instead of her lip, and she figured that was better.

Every now and then, one of the princes or their knights would pass underneath her, oblivious to her research. The only person who ever noticed her was the pretty blonde librarian, who unlocked the doors earlier and earlier every morning so Irene could sit so high her hair brushed the ceiling, who shared her lunch so Irene wouldn’t starve, who called her down every night before she locked up.

“What were you reading today?” she would ask, and Irene would always reply with a small smile.

“A book about stars.”

“I’ve never learned about stars,” the librarian would reply. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Irene would say, and she would wander back towards her room.

There had been much Irene had missed when she was under Moriarty’s control, and she thought she could start at the beginning; the castle’s library was so vast she could just barely see all of it from her perch (a different bookshelf every day).

_ “More stars today?” _

_ “The sea.” _

_ “I’ve never been to the sea. I don’t know if I would like it. I’ll see you tomorrow.” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

Irene had never been to school. She’d never had a tutor, and she’d never been able to read all that well, either. It took her ages to get through only a few chapters, and still it was nearly impossible to decipher half the poncy words those stuffy authors used. It was to be expected, it being the royal library and all, but she couldn’t help but want for some material she could understand. So she never stuck to one book, one topic, for long.

_ “Why on top of the bookshelf?” _

_ “I used to have wings.” _

_ “Do you miss flying?” _

_ “Sometimes.” _

_ “So you perch up high like a bird? That makes sense, I suppose. I’ll see you tomorrow.” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

Irene had always wanted wings. She stared out the window of her small cottage and dreamt of flying far, far away from her horrible father and his horrible brothers and their horrible sons. They left bruises and bloody lips and broken bones in their wake. If Irene had wings, she would be free to go where she pleased and do what she liked with people who needed her.

_ “What’s your name?” _

_ “Irene.” _

_ “My name is Harriet, but everyone calls me Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow, Irene.” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

Irene, like Moriarty’s other familiars, had been human when he saved her. That was the funny thing about familiars, wasn’t it? The saving. Long before Moriarty attended that dreadful ball, hell-bent on seducing the genius prince (not the eldest, whom he dubbed ‘The Iceman,’ as cold as the first winter snowfall, but instead the middle child, whose heart was as fanciful as the clothes he wore), he had been Irene’s salvation. Magic lived in him then, crackling and sparking and white-hot, and she thought it was hope.

It was only greed.

_ “What did you read today?” _

_ “A fairytale.” _

_ “With monsters and Magic and men who live forever? Sounds too familiar for my taste. I’ll see you tomorrow.” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

Irene had tripped and broken her wrist, her foot catching on a gnarled tree root. She whimpered, head snapping this way and that, eyes straining to see her pursuers in the dark forest. Their shouting and swearing were clear as day, closing in on her from all sides, surrounding her, suffocating her-

And then there had been a man. He was short, and his voice was soft, and he laughed when Irene began to cry. There had been a woman next to him, the most beautiful woman Irene had ever seen, blonde hair and blue eyes bright in the darkness. She knelt down and grabbed Irene’s wrist and frowned down at it. The man waved his hand, and a chill washed over Irene, and her wrist was healed. The man and the woman shared a quick look, and the woman disappeared. In her place stood a fierce-looking beast with teeth as big around as Irene’s arm. The beast pounced, and then the shouting stopped.

There was only screaming.

Her father wasn’t angry anymore.

_ “More fairytales, or was today more of a stars day?” _

_ “Weddings. Wedding customs. You Londoners are strange.” _

_ “I’m from Northumberland. I think Londoners are strange, too. I’ll see you tomorrow.” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

Of course, there had been payment.

Moriarty had saved Irene’s life, so she had to give it back. At first, it hadn’t seemed like a punishment. Used to taking orders, Irene got along well with Moriarty, their matching coldness putting Irene in Moriarty’s favor. He told her, once, that he was glad he didn’t let Irene’s father kill her that night in the forest, even though he’d  _ so _ wanted to watch. Irene had only agreed.

If Moriarty was ice, Mary was a forest fire.

Mary  _ (Moran, _ their master called her) paid Irene so much attention even Moriarty got jealous. The blonde taught Irene how to use a blade, how to fight with nothing but her hands, how to lie and cheat and steal and kill. With every lesson, Irene grew warmer. Mary stayed red-hot and untouchable, but Irene didn’t mind the heat.

Moriarty could tell immediately.

That was when he took her aside, gagged her, and ripped off her clothes, and she’d started sobbing because it was just her luck she’d be saved by the same kind of man as the ones she had been trying to escape.

Moriarty had laughed, forcing Magic into her veins until her vision blurred and her body slumped. She’d woken up alone and naked, an  _ M _ carved into her chest with a paring knife (otherwise untouched), blood dried on her white skin.

She dreamed of having wings, and when she found Moriarty again, she was a magpie, her call resonating throughout the forest.

_ “What did you read about today?” _

_ “Birds. Dragons. Things that fly.” _

_ “Oh, all right. Irene, do you want to join me for lunch tomorrow? On the ground?” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

It wasn’t supposed to be difficult. Irene and the other familiars had inserted themselves into the castle weeks before the ball as low-level servants, never crossing paths with the king or his sons but memorizing their schedules, handling their food, mending their clothes. Mary attended the ball as Moriarty’s backup.

When the prince fell in love with Moriarty (as Irene was sure he would) and accepted the engagement, Irene would slip into the King’s chambers as a bird and deal with the guards. She would leave the door unlocked, and Mary would finish what Irene had started. The King and Queen would be dead, and Moriarty would have Sherlock and, eventually, the crown, once Mycroft was dead, too.

It wasn’t supposed to be difficult.

_ “What book was it today?” _

_ “History. Diplomacy. Peace treaties.” _

_ “No wars?” _

_ “I’ve had enough of war. We should lunch again tomorrow.” _

_ “On the ground?” _

_ “On the bookshelves.” _

_ “I’m… this is my job.” _

_ “Tomorrow?” _

_ “Tomorrow.” _

But that was then, and this was now.

~*~*~

Sherlock woke up crying. John stirred, and Sherlock bit his fist to keep from waking him. He took heaving breaths, tears falling down his face. A sob escaped his throat, echoing in the emptiness of their room. Sherlock closed his eyes and cursed himself, wiping his face as John’s blue eyes blinked open.

“Sherlock?” he asked. “Honeybee, what’s wrong?”

The prince only shook his head.

John was awake instantly, hands searching Sherlock for injuries in the dark. It wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to wake up with angry red scratches running down his forearms, and every time, John would rub lotion into the irritated skin and recite poetry (he was clumsy with his words, but every poem he created was gorgeous) until Sherlock went back to sleep. When he was satisfied Sherlock was in no immediate danger, he struck a match and lit a candle, holding it between them like a peace offering.

“What’ve you done to your hand?” he asked softly, turning the offending limb in his own gentle grip. “Don’t stop yourself from crying just to let me sleep. You know I don’t need as much as you do, no matter how much you like to pretend otherwise. I  _ was _ a soldier.”

“You were a doctor.”

John shrugged. “I had bad days.”

Sherlock laughed, a harsh sound in the soft light between them.

“You’re mad,” he murmured, wiping his face. “I’m all right, you know. Just-”

“Just stubborn,” John finished. “Wake me up if you need me, yeah? I do the same to you.”

“It’s all right if  _ you _ do it. After all I put you through…”

“All right, well. First of all, if you’re talking about the month we don’t talk about, that’s not your fault. Secondly, most of my nightmares are about Afghanistan, so, again, not your fault. Thirdly - and lastly,  _ and _ most importantly - relationships don’t work like that. So your reservations are invalid. Wake me up if you need me. Come get me anytime. I’ll drop everything because I  _ love you, _ not because you owe me or I owe you or any shit like that. Yeah?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. “Yes, John.”

“All right. Now, what is it?”

“It’s silly. It’s nothing.”

“Sherlock.”

“Put the candle down,” Sherlock suggested with a sigh. He attached himself to John as soon as the candle was safely on the bedside table, snaking his arms around the knight’s waist, resting his dark curls against John’s  _ (bare) _ chest. John did the same, tracing idle patterns on Sherlock’s shoulder with one hand, the other running through his hair.

“What is it, honeybee? Please, let me help.”

Sherlock shrugged (as best he could, given their position). “Sherrinford used to play in the courtyard, in the flowers. Mummy got so tired of him trampling the plants that she asked the gardeners to let him help plant them. She figured that if they were his, he’d try to protect them.”

“Did he?”

“He was so  _ proud _ of them. He dragged us all out to see them, to watch them grow. I joined him, most of the time, as Mycroft and our parents were so often busy. I tried to teach him the Latin names, but he couldn’t have cared less. He named them all himself, he said. Didn’t need fancy names like  _ Bellis Perennis.”  _

“Daisies?”

“Daisies. So dull, so ordinary, but he thought they were brilliant. He still ran amuck in the gardens, but he made sure not to step on his flowers, nor their ‘friends.’”

“I’m sure your mother was thrilled.”

“Oh, well. At first, I suppose. Ford got so unbearably sad when we picked them to decorate the halls every spring. Mummy was killing his flowers and displaying their corpses around the castle to taunt him. His words.”

“He sounds like you.”

Sherlock smiled softly. “Eventually Mummy had the seamstresses make bouquets of silk flowers so Ford’s garden could live in peace. He came to me in tears because he’d saved his plants.”

“Is that what you dreamt about? It sounds lovely, honeybee. I would’ve loved to have been there.”

“Yes. I think he’d have loved  _ you, _ John. A knight  _ and _ a doctor who knew all sorts of things about Magic and liked his odd older brother’s deductions? He’d never leave you alone. You’d have a shadow the rest of your life.”

“I think I’d be all right with that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

They were silent, so silent that Sherlock would have thought John asleep if he couldn’t hear his heartbeat.

“Do you think we were meant to be together?”

“What?”

“Your Magic. Fate. The universe. You know.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”

“I don’t. That’s why I was asking you.”

“Oh. No.”

Sherlock pulled away, frowning up at John. “No?”

“No. I don’t think Magic, or fate, or the bloody universe forced us together. I didn’t fall in love with you because of some spell or because the stars were in the right place. I love you for you. If it hadn’t been you in that tower but… say, if it’d been Mycroft-”

“John. I’d rather not be sick right now.”

The knight laughed, and Sherlock smiled.

“I love  _ you, _ not just the prince in the tower.”

“That’s awfully romantic of you, John. You should put that in your next poem.”

“Shut it, you, or I just might,” John replied, dropping a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. “You know, it’s your turn to say it back.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I love you, not just my knight in shining armor.”

“Hmm. I like that.”

“So do I. And you’re… happy? Here?”

John groaned and squeezed Sherlock tighter. “Honeybee, it’s been months. When are you going to stop asking me?”

“John.”

“Yes, of course I like it here. I  _ love _ it here. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to having servants, but… I do. I love it here.”

“Good. That’s good. And you’ve figured it out, too?”

“What are you on about now?”

“If you’re a good doctor because you had Magic or if you-”

“Had Magic because I’m a good doctor, yeah, yeah, all that. Piss off.”

“Honestly, John, those were serious underlying self-esteem issues-”

“Oh, come on!”

“-exacerbated by the fact you were invalided-”

“Well, Mister I-Don’t-Have-Feelings-And-Never-Will, I guess we all change, don’t we?”

“Obviously, John. For example, I’m very much in love with you.”

The knight let out a little giggle that lit up Sherlock’s insides. “As you’ve said many,  _ many _ times over the last few minutes, yes.”

“Well, I’ve got to make up for lost time. Really, John, we spent how much time snogging in the woods and we couldn’t figure it out?”

“I suppose you’re right. And how much time did we waste before that  _ not _ snogging in the woods?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Sir Watson, what are you suggesting?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t agree with, I promise,” John replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Just wanted to help you make up for lost time.”

“You’re a bad man,” Sherlock replied, giggling as John pressed sloppy kisses to his jaw and neck. “John.  _ John.” _

“My honeybee,” John murmured against his pale skin. “My lovely honeybee. All mine.”

“Yes, yes, I’m all yours, you’re all mine, we belong to each other, all that. Just kiss me properly, already!”

John, being the very loving and giving partner that he was, wasted no time granting Sherlock his wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter tomorrow! An epilogue of lesser fluff


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *screaming*

Once upon a time, in a land called London, there lived a prince with dark curls and eyes the color of the sky. He lived with the King and Queen and his two brothers, whom he loved above all else.

This prince shunned romance; he swore time and time again that he would never find Love, for he would never go searching for it.

One night, at a great ball hosted by the King and Queen, an evil witch cast a spell over all of London. The King, Queen, and child prince were turned to stone. The eldest prince he turned into a beast as tall as ten men. The middle son, the raven-haired prince, he made sleep.

The prince slept for decades, his older brother keeping watch over him in his formidable new shape - a mighty dragon with terrible teeth and claws. The witch ruled the kingdom while the prince slept, locked away in his tower outside London. He reigned terror upon the people of London, taking their food and money and happiness all at once, sending monsters to scare and harm them, keeping them alive to play his sick games.

The people were hopeless, helpless. They found ways to survive, all the while remembering their beloved King and Queen and their genius princes. Slowly, after many, many years, all but a few lost hope for the return of the princes.

The prince had been asleep for more than fifty years when he finally awakened. He starved in his tower for weeks, aided only by the witch’s slave, a girl trapped inside a mirror. The prince used his own clothes and blankets to escape the tower, meeting a knight who had come to rescue the prince at the base of it.

This knight was no more noble or kind-hearted than any other knight, but he was brave and clever and wanted to help. He was a doctor and a soldier and a Magician, and he could be heard speaking with Magic as if they were old friends.

Together, the prince and the knight set off for London, determined to defeat the witch and end his endless curse. They faced greedy royals and fearsome hounds and vicious spies, and, still, the prince and his knight emerged victorious. Their cunning and their compassion made an ally of the witch’s last familiar, who turned against her master and fought on the side of the prince.

In the outskirts of London, in the poorest towns of the kingdom, the prince met his people for the first time since being cursed. His people rallied behind him, led by a good man and his clever sister. The Londoners and their prince marched on Central London, where the prince and his knight defeated the witch, breaking the curse and restoring peace to their kingdom.

The only life they couldn’t save was that of the youngest prince, whom the witch had killed for no reason other than he could, and the kingdom wept. The people of London mourned the loss of their young prince, sorrow present in every note of relief and happiness at being free of the witch’s curse.

Years passed, and the kingdom was celebrating once more, for the curly-haired prince was marrying his knight, who had never willingly left his side. The wedding was witnessed only by the couple’s friends and family, but the festivities, which lasted days, were attended by all in the kingdom.

It was plain to see, by all who met them, that the prince and his knight shared the truest love that man had ever seen. Their love was long the subject of songs and poetry, epic novels and plays, and none could even scrape the surface of how deeply the feeling ran in either of them.

Long after the prince and the knight were dead and gone, their love lived on in their children, and in the hearts of the kingdom, and in legends for centuries to come.

And they all lived happily ever after.

~*~*~

_ Fin _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments, especially those of encouragement when I announced the mini-hiatus. I'm sad it's over, but I'm glad it's finished. I hope you all have enjoyed reading it more than I've enjoyed writing it.
> 
>  
> 
> I won't be posting any new fanfic for a while, so follow me on tumblr at maybe-strawberry-blue or on instagram at echicks.author if you wanna say hi or something
> 
> :')


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